THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


HE  CAPTAIN'S  ROMANCE 


OF. 


(MISS  MADAM) 


BY,. 

OPIE  READ 


AUTHOR  OF 

"A  KENTUCKY  COLONEL" 


NEW  YORK 


F.  TENNYSON  NEELY 

FUBUSKER 


CHICAGO 


' 


Copyrighted.  1806, 

iu  the 
United  States 

and 
Great  Britain, 

by 
F.  TENNYSON  NKELY. 

CAJ1  Right*  ReserTedL) 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

X4U. 

Mill  Madam, 7 

The  History  of  the  Watch,    .  .  .  .  .67 

Old  Luxton's  Wolf. 65 

Shelling  Pease,              .                      ....  71 

A  Young  Man's  Advice,    .....  79 

The  Professor,             ......  85 

Old  Brothers,           ......  93 

Old  John, VI 

An  Old  Woman's  Dream, 108 

Interviewed  a  Corpse,   ......  109 

Montgomery  Peel,    ......  117 

The  Captain's  Romano*         .....  127 

An  Historic  Shell,    ....'.  135 

Old  Rachel,        .......  143 

Her  Inspiration,       ......  158 

The  Mill  Boys,  .......  163 

A  Chicago  Man,                  «...           ,  171 

Withered  Joe,    .                      .....  189 

In  the  Cumberland  Mountains,    ....  195 

The  Wildcat  Circuit, ..208 

Old  Bill's  Recital, 211 

Five  Years, 221 

A  Strange  Experience,       .....  283 

A  Marine  Farm  House,                                           .  247 

The  Radish  King, 261 

Brought  the  Money,     ......  267 

Zozi,    .           .           .          .           .           .           .           .  279 

Dan  Miters, 291 

Clem,  the  Outlaw,  .....  108 


JS    /? 


MISS  MADAM. 


AN  old  man  and  an  old  woman,  a  pale  young  fellow 
and  a  girl,  sat  at  a  table  placed  upon  a  long  ve 
randa. 

"  Now  I  wonder  who  that  can  be,"  said  the  old 
man,  craning  his  neck  and  looking  down  the  road. 
The  girl  and  the  young  fellow  got  up  that  they 
might  obtain  a  better  view,  and  the  woman,  with  an 
air  of  keen  curiosity,  leaned  over  the  table,  gazed 
down  the  road,  and,  with  a  woman's  quickness  to 
discover  intention,  declared:  "He's  goin'  to  stop. 
See,  pap?"  clutching  the  old  man's  arm.  "He's 
goin'  to  come  in  at  the  big  gate." 

"  He's  not  goin'  to  do  no  sich  of  a  thing,"  the 
man  replied.  "He's — hanged  if  he  ain't.  Won 
der  who  he  can  be.  Eidin'  putty  good  stock,  any 
how." 

The  horseman  who  had  thus  turned  a  quiet  noon 
hour  into  a  speculation  of  deep  concern  rode  up  to 
the  yard  fence,  and,  following  a  time-set  fashion  of 
that  part  of  the  country,  cried:  "Hello  I" 


8  MISS   MADAM. 

"Git  down  and  come  in,"  the  old  man  answered. 
He  had  arisen  from  the  table  and  was  advancing 
to  meet  the  stranger.  "  Coma  right  in,  suh,  and 
make  yo'self  at  home." 

The  girl  vanished;  the  young  fellow  hung  about 
and  stole  an  occasional  peep  at  the  visitor.  It  was 
evident  that  strangers  were  rare  in  that  neighbor 
hood. 

!'  We  have  jest  been  eatin'  a  snack,"  said  the  old 
man,  when  he  had  shown  the  stranger  into  the 
house.  "Won't  you  eat  a  mouthful  or  so?  Don't 
reckon,  however,  that  you  will  find  much  to  yo' 
taste." 

"  Pap,"  the  woman  suddenly  interposed,  appear 
ing  in  the  door  and  wringing  her  apron  in  embar 
rassed  consciousness  of  the  temerity  of  thus  pre 
senting  herself,  "if  he'll  wait  a  minit  I'll  kill  a 
chicken  and  bake  some  biscuit,  for  goodness  knows 
we  ain't  got  nuthin'  that  is  fitten  for  a  body  to 
eat." 

"  Oh,  don't  let  me  put  you  to  any  trouble,"  the 
visitor  protested.  "  I'm  sure  that  anything  you've 
got  is  good  enough  for  me." 

He  was  so  easy  in  manner  and  so  cordial  of  voice 
that  the  woman,  yielding,  though  reluctantly,  it 
could  be  seen,  said:  "Wall,  if  you  think  you  can 
put  up  with  it,  you  are  perfectly  welcome.  Pap, 
fetch  a  cheer  for  the  gentleman," 


MISS  MADAM.  9 

They  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  but  the  girl 
and  the  young  fellow  did  not  re-appear.  The  girl, 
peeping  from  behind  the  ash  hopper,  and  speaking 
to  the  young  fellow,  who  had  taken  refuge  behind  a 
corner  of  the  smoke-house,  said: 

"  He  looks  mighty  fine,  Little  Dave." 

"A  fiddle  ain't  no  whar  to  him,"  the  boy  answered. 

"  Little  Dave,"  the  old  man  called,  "  why  don't 
you  and  Miss  Madam  come  along  here  now  and 
finish  eatin'  yo'  dinner?" 

"  Don't  want  no  mo'." 

The  visitor  looked  up,  and  the  girl  and  young 
fellow  dodged  out  of  sight. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country  this  would  have 
been  regarded  as  an  odd  family,  but  in  a  certain 
wild  region  of  Kentucky,  old  man  Bradshaw's 
"  folks  "  were  quite  conventional.  The  head  of  the 
household  was  somewhat  of  a  neighborhood  char 
acter.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a  large,  pioneer 
sort  of  nose,  and  with  an  uneven,  grayish  beard. 
He  had  a  backwoodsman's  idea  of  the  ludicrous, 
that  broad  estimate  of  fun  which,  when  refined  but 
not  too  much  toned  down,  approaches  the  establish 
ment  of  a  distinctive  class  of  American  humor;  and 
emphasizing  his  conception  of  the  ridiculous,  as 
though  an  atonement  must  be  offered,  there  was  a 
pathetic  note  somewhere  in  the  gamut  of  his  voice. 
When  a  young  man,  he  had  built  a  house  on  a  hill 


10  MISS   MADAM. 

side,  near  a  spring  that  gushed  from  under  a  rugged 
bluff,  green  the  year  round — eternity's  moss  cover 
ing  the  rock  of  ages.  Here  he  and  his  wife  had 
spent  many  a  year  of  toil,  and  it  was  here,  in  an  old 
orchard,  that  they  expected  to  be  buried. 

The  woman,  too,  was  in  her  way  a  type.  She  had 
two  great  fears;  one  that  she  might  not  possibly 
have  received  enough  of  the  spirit  when,  years  ago, 
she  had  sprung  up  from  the  mourners'  bench  and 
shouted  in  the  almost  frenzied  ecstacy  of  her  soul's 
deliverance  from  torment.  She  was  supremely — 
she  thought  divinely — happy  for  months  afterward, 
but  gradually  she  began  to  fear  that  her  conversion 
had  been  too  violent,  and  that  Satan  must  either 
have  had  a  hand  in  the  work,  or  had  at  least  thrown 
in  a  suggestion  or  two.  Sometimes  her  faith  would 
be  perfect,  and  not  a  cloud  could  she  see  in  her  se 
rene  sky  of  hope.  Then  she  would  go  about  the 
yard,  singing.  Everything  seemed  to  inspire  her, 
and  new  songs  came  to  her  as  she  stood,  with  her 
arms  resting  on  the  fence,  gazing  down  the  lonoly 
road.  The  breeze^that  stirred  her  hair  was  a  whis 
per  of  love,  and  the  sunlight  that  fell  in  the  lano 
•wa«  a  smile  of  encouragement.  Suddenly,  and 
without  a  warning  gradation  from  this  mount  of 
assured  paradise,  she  would  sink  into  the  valley  of 
doubt.  The  breeze  that  stirred  her  hair  was  harsh 
with  reproach,  and  the  sunlight  that  fell  in  the  lane 


MI03  MADAM.  11 

was  a  threatening  flarae.     Then  she  would  hasten  to 
the  field  where  her  husband  was  at  work. 

"  Pap,  I  jest  know  I  ain't  elected." 

"How  do   you  know?     You  ain't   seen  all   the* 
votes  yet,  have  you  ?  " 

"  For  mussy  sake  don't  talk  that  way  when  a  body 
is  in  sich  distress.  Oh,  I  have  done  the  best  I  can, 
the  Lord  knows." 

"  Wall,  if  you  have,  you  are  all  right,  I  reckon. 
You  trust  in  the  Saviour,  don't  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  with  all  my  soul." 

"  Wall,  then,  nothin'  can't  hurt  yo'  soul.  Go  on 
back  to  the  house  now,  and  rest  easy." 

If  one  of  these  supplicating  visits  should  happen 
to  be  near  the  noon  hour,  the  old  fellow  would  slyly 
hint  that  he  didn't  feel  very  well  either,  and  that  a 
bite  to  eat  would  help  him  mightily. 

Mrs.  Bradshaw's  other  fear  was  that  people  who 
visited  her  house  might  go  away  and  "norate  it 
around "  that  they  didn't  get  enough  to  eat  while 
there,  and  she  had  been  known  to  slip  out  at  night 
and  kill  a  chicken  to  keep  down  the  possibility  of 
slander.  The  old  man  often  said  that  nothing  on 
the  place  was  safe,  not  even  a  setting  goose,  when 
ever  any  body  chanced  to  "drapin."  Once,  when 
she  was  delirious  with  fever,  her  husband  awoke  at 
night  and  found  that  she  was  gone.  He  heard  a 
chicken  squawl,  and  then  he  found  her  in  the  hen 


12  MISS    MADAM. 

house,  reaching  up  and  tugging  at  the  feet  of  an 
old  Shanghai  rooster. 

With  regard  to  the  comer  who  had  so  cheerfully 
*  agreed  to  take  pot-luck,  even  though  he  was  courteous 
and  cordial,  there  arose  grave  suspicions,  and  those 
fatal  words,  "  norate  it  around,"  seemed  to  whisper 
themselves  into  the  woman's  mind  during  the  meal; 
but  after  dinner,  when  they  sat  in  the  "  big  room," 
talking  with  pleasant  freedom,  she  wondered  how 
so  good-natured  a  man  could  possibly  "  slander  a 
body." 

"I  have  had  yo'  hoss  put  up  and  fed,"  the  old 
man  remarked  when  the  visitor,  slightly  leaning 
back,  looked  toward  the  fence.  "I  didn't  reckon 
you  wanted  to  go  any  farther  this  evenin'." 

"  No,  if  you  don't  mind  my  staying  all  night.  I 
have  ridden  pretty  hard  to-day  and  am  somewhat 
tired." 

"You  are  mo'  than  welcome,  suh.  Let's  see, 
what  is  yo'  name  ?  " 

"Andrews." 

"Any  kin  to  Pete  Andrews  over  in  Hackett 
county?" 

"  I  think  not." 

"  Wall,  you  needn't  be  ashamed  to  claim  kin  with 
him,  for  he's  much  of  a  man.  Seen  him  tie  a  feller 
bigger'n  him  one  day  at  Boyd's  mill.  Jest  snatched 
a  hold  of  him,  suh,  and  nachully  tied  him;  and  eat! 


MISS  MADAM.  13 

Let  me  tell  yon:  One  time  a  passul  of  us  at  a  log 
rollin'  'gunter  talk  about  eatin',  and  John  Sander- 
eon,  the  one  that  married  Sis  Perdue " 

"He  married  Liza  Perdue^"  Mrs.  Bradshaw 
,  mildly  suggested. 

"The  one  that  married  Sis  Perdue,"  the  old  man 
repeated. 

"  Papa,  I  tell  you  it  was  Liza  Perdue,  for  I  re- 
colleck  mighty  well  the  day  they  was  married.  I 
was  standin'  at  the  big  gate  and  here  come  Sam 
Hargiss  on  the  old  mar'  that  he  afterwards  swopped 
to  Sol  Faldin  and  'lowed,  he  did,  that  Jeff  Hawkins 
had  split  his  foot  open  with  an  axe  and  that  John 
Sanderson  had  jest  married  Liza  Perdue.  I  recol- 
leck  it  jest  like  it  was  yistidy." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  old  man,  "have  it  yo'  own 
way,  for  it  don't  make  no  difference  no  how.  What 
I  was  goin'  to  say  is  this:  A  passul  of  us  'gunter 
to  talk  about  eatin',  and  John  Sanderson " 

"  The  one  that  married  Liza  Perdue,"  Mrs.  Brad- 
shaw  observed,  slightly  inclining  her  head  toward 
the  visitor. 

"  Wall,  ding  it  all,  the  one  that  married  Liza  Ann 
Perdue " 

"Her  name  wan't  Liza  Ann,  pap.  It  wan't  nothin' 
but  Liza.  You  are  thkikin'  about  Lizzie  Ann,  the 
one  next  to  the  youngest." 

The  old  man  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and 


14  MISS  MADAM. 

then,  stroking  hie  beard,  said:  "I  wish  I  may  die 
if  I  ever  seen  the  like.  Confound  the  Perdue  family 
anyhow.  The  old  man  borrowed  a  bull-tongue  plow 
from  me  once  and  I  wish  I  may  never  stir  agin  if 
he  didn't  swop  it  for  a  shuck  collar  and  a  pair  of 
hames.  But,"  he  added,  nodding  at  the  visitor, 
"  what  I  wanted  to  git  at  is  this:  A  passul  of  us 
was  at  a  log-rollin'  and  the  question  of  who  could 
eat  the  most  come  up  and  John  Sanderson  'lowed  in 
a  sort  of  off-hand  way  that  ho  did  reckon  he  could 
eat  mo1  roasted  goose  eggs  when  he  was  right  at 
himself  than  any  man  he  ever  seen.  Now  this  was 
a  leetle  grain  mo'  than  Pete  Andrews  could  stand, 
bein'  a  high-strung  sort  of  feller,  and  he  spit  his 
tobacker  out  of  his  mouth,  he  did,  and  says :  '  Are 
you  right  at  yo'self  to-day?'  And  then  John  San 
derson  sort  of  felt  of  himself  and  studied  a  while 
and  'lowed  that  he  reckoned  he  was.  *  Well,  then,' 
said  Pete,  '  about  how  many  do  you  think  you  can 
chamber?1  John  studied  a  while  and  'lowed  that 
he  didn't  know  exactly  how  many  he  could  chamber, 
but  that  he  would  eat  agin  Pete  and  have  an  under- 
etandin'  that  the  one  that  eat  the  least  had  to  pay 
for  all.  Wall,  they  pitched  in  and  Sanderson  swal 
lowed  eleven,  but  Andrews  he  raised  a  great  shout 
of  victory  by  swallowin'  thirteen.  I  tell  you  he 
wan't  no  common  man  even  in  them  days  when 
great  men  was  a  heap  mo'  plentyful  than  they  are 
»ow.  So  jou  wan' t  no  kin  to  him?" 


MISS  MADAM.  15 

"  No,  I  have  no  relatives  in  this  State." 

"  You  live  away  off  yander  somewhar,  I  reckon?" 

"  Tea,  a  long  ways." 

"  Don't  look  like  you  been  uster  doing  much 
work." 

"  Pap,"  the  woman  interposed,  "  don't  talk  thater 
way.  Everybody  don't  have  to  work  themselves  to 
death  like  us. 

"  Wall,  'Lizabeth,  I  sholy  didn't  mean  no  harm, 
for  I  had  an  old  uncle  in  No'th  Klina  that  never 
done  no  work,  and  he  was  a  putty  good  sort  of  a 
fellar,  too,  I'll  tell  you." 

The  visitor  laughed  in  so  good  natured  a  way 
that  the  man  laughed,  and  then  from  the  outside 
there  came  a  tittering  that  caused  the  old  woman  to 
hasten  to  the  door.  "  Miss  Madam,  what's  the  mat 
ter  with  you  and  Little  Dave  out  thar?"  she  asked. 
"  Can't  you  behave  yo'selfs  and  not  dodge  about 
a  gigglin'  like  a  lot  of  geese  ?  " 

"Geese  don't  giggle;  they  squawks,"  came  from 
the  outside. 

"  Let  'em  alone,  'Lizabuth,"  said  the  old  man, 
smiling.  "  Let  'em  enjoy  themselves  while  they 
can." 

"  They  are  your  children,  I  suppose,"  the  visitor 
remarked. 

"  Wall,  that  is  to  say  partly,"  the  old  man  an 
swered.  "  Miss  Madam  is  our  daughter — the  only 


16  MISS   MADA1L  I 

child  we  ever  had  except  Jedge  that  the  guerrillas 
killed  durin'  the  war — but  Little  Dave  ain't  no  kin 
to  us.  We  took  him  to  raise  befo'  Miss  Madam  was 
horned,  'cause  he  was  a  little  bit  of  a  crippled  thing 
that  nobody  didn't  want,  but  he  always  was  a  mighty 
peart  child,  and  bless  you,  he  can  do  a  power  of 
good  with  a  hoe  now.  He's  crowdin'  twenty  putty 
close,  and  Miss  Madam  is  going  on  seventeen." 
"  Why  do  you  call  her  Miss  Madam  ?  " 
"  I  reckon  that  name  do  sound  strange  to  folks 
that  don't  understand  it,  and  I'll  tell  you  exactly 
how  it  come  about:  A  long  time  ago,  when  me  and 
wife  was  movin'  out  here,  our  hoss — the  only  one 
we  had — drapped  down  in  the  road  and  died.  Laws 
a  mussy,  how  we  was  troubled,  for  we  didn't  know 
what  to  do,  not  havin'  but  a  few  dimes,  and  we 
know'd  that  thar  wan't  no  use  in  tryin'  to  go  on 
without  a  hoss,  as  we  couldn't  do  nothin'  after  we 
got  thar  toward  raisin'  a  crap.  While  we  was 
etandin'  thar,  mournin',  along  come  a  carriage,  and 
right  close  to  it  come  a  man  on  a  hoes.  The  car 
riage  was  as  bright  as  a  new  dollar,  and  the  man 
looked  like  a  governor.  Wall,  when  they  got  up  to 
whar  we  was,  they  stopped,  and  the  man  asked: 
4  What's  the  matter  with  yo'  hoss? '  *  Nothin's  the 
matter  with  him  now,  suh,'  I  said.  'He  might 
have  been  powerful  sick  a  few  minits  ago,  but  he's 
dead  now.1  'Is  that  the  only  hoss  you're  got?' 


MISS   MADAM.  17 

he  asked.  '  Yes,'  said  t  *  and  I  ain't  got  him  now, 
and  the  Lord  only  knows  how  I'm  going  to  make 
a  crap.'  Jest  then  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  seen — 
the  face  of  a  woman — showed  at  the  winder  of  the 
carriage.  The  dog-wood  blossoms  and  the  red-bud 
bloom  had  give  her  their  color,  and  the  dew-draps 
from  the  grape-vines  had  fell  in  her  eyes.  When 
she  seen  my  wife  a  standin'  thar  a  cryin1,  she  asked, 
'  And  is  that  really  the  only  hoss  you  had? ' 

"  'Yes,  mam,'  my  wife  answered,  wringin'  her 
hands. 

"  '  And  you  say  you  can't  make  a  crap  ?  * 

"  '  We  can't  do  nothin  now  that  the  hoss  is  dead, 
and  we  niout  as  well  die,  too.' 

"  Then  the  woman  sortei  leaned  out  of  the  car 
riage,  and  with  a  smile  that  put  me  in  mind  of  a 
mornin'  in  spring  after  a  rain  had  fell  the  night 
befo',  said:  '  Jedge,  get  down  and  give  them  yo' 
hoss ! ' 

"  Madam,'  said  he,  '  it  shall  be  jest  as  you  say,' 
and  befo'  I  knowed  what  was  bein'  done,  I  was  so 
astonished,  the  bridle  rein  was  in  my  hand,  my  wife 
was  on  her  knees,  and  the  carriage  was  gone.  We 
never  could  find  out  thar  names — all  we  knowd  was 
Jedge  and  Madam — so  when  our  boy  was  borned — 
the  one  that  was  killed — we  called  him  Jedge,  and 
when  the  little  girl  come  we  called  her  Madam,  but 
being  such  a  little  bit  of  a  thing,  and  Madam  sound- 


18  MISS  MADAM. 

in'  most  too  big  for  her,  we  added  the  Miss.  'Liaa- 
buth,  step  thar  to  the  do'  and  tell  the  children  we 
won't  go  out  to  the  field  ag'iu  this  eveiiin'." 


OHAPTEB  IL 

THE  house  was  a  double-log  structure,  one-story 
and  a  half  high,  with  a  broad  open  passage  between 
the  two  sections,  and  with  the  shaky  gallery,  that 
served  as  a  summer  dining  place,  running  out  in 
apparent  aimlessness  from  the  passage.  The  neigh 
bors  said  that  old  Bradshaw,  having  more  clap 
boards  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with,  built  the 
roof  as  a  sort  of  joke,  and  was  then  compelled 
to  put  down  the  floor  as  a  necessity. 

Andrews  did  not  see  the  children  at  supper, 
but  when  he  went  to  bed  in  a  half-room  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  he  heard  them  giggling  in  some 
mysterious  hiding-place ;  and  as  he  lay,  sunk  down 
into  the  old  feather  bed  with  a  feeling  of  help 
less  comfort,  he  heard  them  giggle  again,  and 
then  he  heard  rain  pattering  on  the  roof,  close 
above  his  head.  Bain  on  an  old  roof  gently  rocks 
the  cradle  for  "  nature's  soft  nurse."  There  comes 
no  nervous  dream,  taken  with  the  flash-light  of  a 


MISS  MADAM.  19 

disturbed  mind,  flitting  in  troublous  zig-zag,  but 
there  is  a  semi-consciousness,  a  pleasurable  sink 
ing  into  deeper  comfort,  and  a  thankfulness  through 
it  all  that  the  rain  is  falling  so  close  overhead.  List 
lessly  the  visitor  felt,  rather  than  dreamed,  that 
he  was  again  a  plowboy  on  the  old  farm,  dread 
ing  the  summons  to  get  up  and  feed  the  horses; 
and  reaching  out  he  put  his  arm  around  the  rest 
ful  ease  of  morning  drowsiness,  and  hugged  it 
closer  to  him,  loth  to  part  with  it,  shrinking 
from  the  thought  of  blazing  corn-rows,  where  the 
sweaty  horse  lashed  his  tail  at  the  flies,  where 
the  spider  fled  along  the  strands  of  its  rudely- 
broken  web,  where  the  rusty  toad,  with  a  dismal 
croak,  rolled  upon  its  back  in  the  new-made  fur 
row.  Suddenly  he  started  and  looked  about  the 
room.  Old  man  Bradshaw  had  rapped  on  the 
stairway,  and  had  called: 

"  Come  on  now,  mister,  and  eat  a  snack." 
It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  as  Andrews  stood 
on  the  veranda  he  thought  that  he  had  never  before 
seen  a  day  so  bright.  Nature  had  smiled  in  her 
sleep,  and  had  awakened  with  a  laugh.  The  old- 
time  roses  in  the  yard  held  up  their  pouting  lips 
to  be  pleased,  as  half-spoiled  children  do;  and  a 
resplendent  hollyhock  that  grew  near  the  kitchen, 
and  about  whose  roots  the  coffee  grounds  were 
poured  every  morning,  devoid  of  warmth,  seemed 


20  MISS   MADAM. 

happy  in  the  contemplation  of  its  own  gaudy  dress. 

"  Jest  set  right  down  and  fall  to,"  said  old  man 
Bradshaw,  and  then  with  a  sly  wink  he  added: 
"  'Lizabuth  must  have  got  up  befo'  day,  and  de 
clared  war  on  the  chickens,  for  about  3  o'clock  I 
heard  the  old  Shanghai  squawl  like  thar  wan't  no 
mo'  hope  left  on  the  face  of  the  yeth." 

"  Now,  pap,"  his  wife  protested  in  meek  annoy 
ance,  seating  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  table  near 
the  steaming  coffee  pot,  and  smoothing  her  hair 
in  an  embarrassed  way,  "  if  you  keep  on  talkin' 
like  that  folks  will  think  that  I  ain't  got  right 
good  sense;  but  a  body  has  to  live,  I  reckon, 
and  if  chickens  ain't  to  eat,  I  'd  like  to  know 
what  they  was  put  here  for.  Jest  pass  yo'  plate, 
Mr.  Andrews." 

"  Why  don't  Miss  Madam  and  Little  Dave  come 
along  here  now,  and  quit  their  everlasting  fool 
ishness?"  the  old  man  asked,  looking  toward  the 
kitchen  door.  "  Enough  of  anything  is  enough, 
and  too  much  don't  taste  sweet  at  all." 

Andrews  heard  a  suppressed  giggle,  and  then 
there  came  on  the  quick  conveyance  of  an  excited 
whisper,  the  words  —  "  Don't  do  that  —  don't  shove 
me  out  there!" 

"  Come  on  here,  now,"  Bradshaw  demanded,  "  we 
don't  want  no  mo'  of  that  foolishness,  and  won't 
have  it,  nuther." 


MISS  MADAM.  21 

Little  Dave  stepped  out  upon  the  porch,  and 
cautiously  advanced  toward  the  table.  Andrews 
saw  an  under -size  young  man  —  a  mere  boy  — 
pale,  despite  the  seeming  effort  the  sun  had  made 
to  brown  his  face,  with  hair  almost  white,  and 
with  one  leg  apparently  much  smaller  and  shorter 
than  the  other.  His  eyes  were  almost  as  colorless 
as  a  potato  vine  that  had  grown  in  a  cellar,  and 
his  thin,  drawn  lips  spoke,  the  gue~t  fancied,  in 
impressive  silence  of  many  and  many  a  night  of 
lonely  suffering.  The  girl  cau.j  out.  A  bashful 
smile  put  her  shyness  in  italics,  and  laid  embar 
rassed  stress  upon  her  red  timidity.  Her  eyes 
were  brown,  and  her  wayward  hair  inspired  a- 
thought  of  a  ripening  corn  silk  that  a  perfumed 
breeze  had  tangled.  She  was  beautiful.  Even  an 
old  man,  gazing  upon  her,  would  have  been  thrilled. 
Andrews  was  young.  He  cared  no  longer  to  listen 
in  silence  to  what  the  old  man  might  say,  but 
began  to  talk.  He  told  a  pleasing  story,  and  Miss 
Madam  laughed  He  was  so  free,  so  easy.  They 
had  never  seen  any  one  like  him. 

After  breakfast,  while  the  old  man  and  Little 
Dave  were  feeding  the  stock,  Andrews  continued 
to  sit  at  the  table,  looking  at  the  girl  as  she  took 
away  the  dishes. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  to  school?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  much,"  she  answered. 


22  MISS   MADAM. 

"  I  suppose  you  'd  like  to  go." 

"Yes,  but  it's  most  too  late,  now.  I  was  at 
school  one  day,  me  and  Little  Dave,  and  a  man 
rode  up  to  the  schoolhouse  and  shot  the  teacher 
and  killed  him.  That  was  a  long  time  ago,  and 
thar  hasn't  been  any  school  thar  sence.  The  teacher 
had  whipped  a  boy,  and  that  was  the  reason  the  man 
killed  him." 

"  Would  you  oome  to  me  if  I  should  take  up 
a  school?" 

"  If  pap  says  so  I  would,  but  I  'm  afraid  that 
me  and  Little  Dave  couldn't  go  until  we  git  through 
hoeing  the  corn." 

"  Do  you  have  to  hoe  corn? " 

"  Yes,  when  it 's  in  the  grass  much  I  do.  Pap 
wouldn't  make  me,  but  I  hate  to  see  him  and 
Little  Dave  out  in  the  field  all  by  themselves." 

"  But  I  should  think  that  you  'd  rather  stay  at 
the  house  and  help  your  mother." 

"  I  would  sometimes." 

"Why  not  at  all  times?" 

She  turned  and  looked  about,  and  seeing  her 
mother  standing  at  the  yard  gate,  looking  down 
the  lonely  road,  resumed  her  work  without  answer 
ing;  but  after  a  few  moments  she  said:  "Mother 
cries  so  much  sometimes  that  I  can 't  bear  to  see 
her.  She 's  afraid  the  Lord  don't  love  her,  but  I 
know  He  does,  and  pap  knows  it,  too.  Yonder 
comes  pap  and  Little  Dave.1' 


MISS   MADAM.  23 

"  Come  out  under  the  trees  whar  the  air  is  stir- 
rin',"  said  the  old  man  when  he  had  placed  a 
basket  on  the  veranda.  "  Fetch  a  cheer  with 
you." 

When  they  had  sat  down  under  a  tree,  Andrews 
said  that  he  had  thought  of  continuing  his  journey,, 
but  that  the  idea  of  taking  up  a  school  in  the  com 
munity  had  just  occurred  to  him.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Wall,  if  you  ain't  got  no  particular  place  to 
go  to,  and  if  nobody  in  particular  ain't  expectin' 
you,  I  don't  know  but  it  would  be  as  good  plan 
as  any;  but  thar's  this  about  it:  You  won't  git 
much  of  a  sprinklin'  of  scholars  till  the  corn  is 
laid  by.  Miss  Madam  could  go  most  of  the  time, 
and  Little  Dave  could  go  rainy  days;  but  if  it's 
money  you're  after,  why,  I  ruther  think  you  can 
do  better  in  most  any  sort  of  business." 

"  I  don't  care  for  the  money  that  might  be  in  it." 

"  Wall,  if  that 's  the  case,  you  can  jest  teach  a 
school  in  this  neighborhood  as  long  as  you  are  a 
mind  to."  "  'Lizabuth,"  he  called,  "what's  the 
matter  with  you  this  mornin'?" 

"  Pap,"  she  said,  slowly  turning  her  face  toward 
him,  "  I  jest  know  that  I  ain't  elected." 

"Don't,  now,  'Lizabuth;  I  say  don't  give  up 
that  way.  Come  over  here  and  set  down.  Come 
on,"  he  softly  pleaded,  going  to  her.  He  led  her 


24  MISS  MADAM. 

under  the  tree,  and  placed  her  on  his  chair.  "  Don't 
now." 

"  Pap,  thar's  a  certain  number  to  be  saved  and 
a  certain  number  to  be  lost." 

"  Thar,  now,  don't.  You  '11  feel  better  after  a 
while.  What's  dark  now  will  be  bright  by  and 
by.  The  Son  of  Man  didn't  die  in  vain.  Come, 
we  '11  go  out  in  the  woods  and  talk  it  over." 

He  led  her  away  and  Andrews  went  back  to  the 
veranda.  The  girl  was  sweeping  and  the  cripple  sat 
on  the  floor  with  his  back  against  the  wall.  The 
visitor  sat  down  on  a  rickety  chair,  and  after  gazing 
in  the  direction  which  the  old  man  and  his  wife  had 
taken,  turned  to  the  young  man,  and  with  an  air  of 
rather  pleasing  familiarity,  said:  "Ah,  by  the  way, 
Little  Dave,  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  go  to 
school,  wouldn't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  spitting  through 
his  teeth.  "  I  uster  think  that  I'd  like  to  go  to 
school  long  enough  to  be  a  doctor,  but  I  reckon  I'm 
gittin'  along  a  little  too  much  for  that  now." 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  a  doctor,"  the  girl  spoke 
up,  "for  I  have  heard  it  said  that  they  cut  up  dead 
folks." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  that,"  said  Little  Dave.  "After 
Mil  Pursley's  head  had  been  split  open  by  a  hoss 
kickin'  him,  I  stood  by  and  seen  a  doctor  sew  it  up, 
and  never  flinched,  nulher.  Why  did  you  want  to 
know  whuther  I'd  like  to  go  to  school  or  not?  " 


MISS   MADAM.  25 

"  Because  I  was  thinking  of  taking  up  a  school  in 

tills  neighborhood." 

"  No,  don't  believe  I  want  to  go.  Miss  Madam," 
he  added,  "do  you  want  to  go  to  meetin'  to-day?" 

"  No,  I  can't.  Mother  and  pap  are  goin'  and  I'll 
have  to  stay  and  git  dinner.  Are  you  goin',  mister  ?" 

"  No,"  Andrews  answered,  "  for  the  truth  is,  I 
rode  so  hard  yesterday  that  I  don't  care  to  do  any 
riding  to-day.  Are  you  going,  Little  Dave  ?  " 

The  cripple  glanced  quickly  at  Andrews  and 
simply  said:  '"No." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  appeared  to  be  in  better  spirits 
when  she  and  the  old  man  returned  from  the  woods, 
but  occasionally  as  she  busied  herself  with  prepara 
tions  for  the  ride  to  church  there  was  a  nervous  out 
cropping  of  the  distressing  anxiety  through  which 
ehe  had  passed.  While  Bradshaw  was  attempting 
to  tighten  the  saddle  girth,  the  old  gray  mare 
squealed  maliciously  and  reaching  around  bit  a 
handful  of  hair  from  the  top  of  his  head;  and  in  a 
frenzy  he  seized  a  fence  rail,  knocked  her  down,  and 
then  clapping  a  hand  on  his  head,  swore  furiously. 

"Oh,  for  mussy  sake,  pap,  don't!  Oh!  please, 
don't,"  his  wife  pleaded. 

"  What  in  the  deuce  then  do  you  expect  me  to  do, 
hah,"  he  cried,  turning  upon  her  with  a  sharp-cut 
grin  of  agony,  "  didn't  you  see  her  bite  mighty  nigh 
all-  the  hair  offea  the  top  of  my  head  ?  Do  you  reckon 


26  MISS  MADAM. 

I'm  goin'  to  stand  here  and  call  her  honey  after 
that?  Whoa,  here  now.  Oh,  you  better  stand  still 
or  I'll  maul  the  day  lights  outen  you.  You  good 
for  nothin'  wretch,  and  I  give  you  two  years  of  corn 
extra,  twice  within  a  week.  Blast  yo'  old  hide  I'll 
maul  you  till  you  can't  see.  Stand  round  here, 
now." 

"  Pap,  if  you  keep  on  that  way  Til  be  afraid  that 
you  ain't  elected  nuther." 

"  I'd  ruther  not  be  elected  than  to  have  all  my 
hair  bit  out  by  the  roots!"  he  exclaimed.  "Dog 
my  cats  if  I'm  goin'  to  stand  it.  Talk  about  bein' 
elected  when  a  fool  mare  is  snappin'  all  the  hair 
offen  me.  Wisht  I  may  die  dead  if  I  ever  was  hurt 
as  bad  in  my  life.  Whoa,  now.  Oh,  I'll  maul  yo' 
old  head  into  a  loblolly  if  you  don't  quit  yo'  pranc- 
in'.  Come  on  here  now,  'Lizabuth,  and  let  me  help 
you  up." 

Andrews,  the  girl  and  Little  Dave  stood  looking 
after  the  old  man  and  his  wife  until  a  bend  far  down 
the  leafy  road  hid  them  from  view. 

"I  must  go  and  gather  some  snap  beans  for 
dinner,"  said  Miss  Madam,  turning  away. 

"  And  I  will  go  and  help  you,"  Andrews  gallantly 
volunteered. 

"  No,"  Little  Dave  spoke  up,  "  I  am  goin'  with 
her.  We  don't  want  to  impose  on  company." 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  no  imposition,  but  a  pleasure," 


MISS   MADAM.  27 

Andrews  declared,  and  he  went  with  them  to  the 
garden,  although  he  felt  that  by  one  at  least  his 
presence  was  not  desired.  Little  Dave  carried  a 
dish-pan  into  which  the  beans  were  put,  and  several 
times  when  Andrews  attempted  to  deposit  a  handful, 
the  cripple  adroitly,  and  with  the  appearance  of 
accident,  moved  the  pan  so  that  the  beans  might 
fall  on  the  ground.  "You  little  wretch,"  the  visitor 
mused,  "  I'd  like  to  shake  that  ill-mannered  sullen- 
ness  out  of  you." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Andrews!  "  the  girl  exclaimed,  "  you 
are  flingin'  'em  on  the  ground." 

"  Yes,  he  makes  the  pan  dodge  me,"  replied  An 
drews. 

"lain'tdoin'  nothin'  of  the  sort,"  Little  Dave 
replied.  "I  reckon  the  trouble  is  you  are  cross 
eyed." 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yo'self,  Little 
Dave,"  she  cried.  "  That  ain't  no  way  to  talk  about 
company,  and  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  tell  pap  when 
he  comes  back.  Don't  pay  no  attention  to  him,  Mr. 
Andrews,  for  he  don't  mean  what  he  says." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  too." 

"  Now,  Little  Dave,  you  jest  know  you  don't." 

"  Do,  too." 

"Come  on  now,  we've  got  enough,"  said  Miss 
Madam.  "  I  can  string  'em  without  anybody  helpin' 
me." 


MISS   MADAM. 


Won't  you  let  me  help  you?  "  Andrews  asked. 
"No,"  said  the  cripple.     "I  am  goin'  to  help 

her" 

Andrews,  disgusted  with  the  boy,  lighted  a  pipe 

and  lay  down  under  a  tree  in  the  yard, 
that  fool  boy  wasn't  here,"  he  mused.  •«  What  a  res  - 
ful  place  this  is!      What  an  elysium  after  nights 
that  were  heated  with  the  fever  of  gluttony, 
cooling  shades  of  simple  life,  if  I  had  breathed  thy 
atmosphere-I   am   a  fool,"  he  broke  off,  turning 
over    "I  am  catching  at  the  ravelings  of  a  tatterec 
Bentiment.     But  ought  I  stay  here  and  attempt  to 
teach  school?   Why  ask  myself  so  silly  a  question? 
That     child's  face    flutters  in   my   bosom, 
here     Mr.— Andrews— I   never  credited  you  with 
having  much  sound  sense,  but  hang  it,  sir,  you  are 

disappointing." 

He  sank  into  a  reverie,  half  in  the  darkness  of 
sleep  and  half  in  the  light  of  consciousness,  as  the 
slowly  waving  boughs  above  threw  shadows  or  sifl 
sun-glints  on  his  face.     The  boughs  ceased  waving 
and  he  slept,  a  dark  shade  lying  on  his  countenance. 
"  Come  on  and  let's  eat  a  snack,"  cried  old  Brad- 
shaw      He  had  just  turned  loose  the  old  gray  mare, 
yea,  had  just  dealt  her  a  blow  with  the  bridle,  stiU 
holding  a  memory  of  her  ingratitude. 

Andrews  started  up,  and  as  if  he  would  rub 
the  dark  shade,  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.    "All 


MISS   MADAM.  29 

right,"  he  answered,  "  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

Old  Mrs.  Bradshaw  hummed  a  sacred  tune  as  she 
assisted  her  daughter  in  putting  the  dishes  on  the 
table.  Her  face  was  radiant  with  the  indescribable 
light  of  a  Christian's  hope,  and  her  eyes  were  aglow 
with  the  soft  effulgence  of  her  soul's  tranquility. 

"  You  appear  to  be  happy,"  Andrews  said  as  hs 
approached  the  table. 

*'  Yes,  for  I  feel  now  that  I  am  elected.  The 
clouds  have  been  mighty  dark,  but  the  sun  shined 
out  at  last.  I'm  afraid  that  you  won't  find  the  dinner 
to  yo'  likin',  suh,  but  Miss  Madam  has  done  the  best 
she  can,  I  reckon." 

"  If  I  knowed  that  I  was  elected,"  said  the  old 
man,  softly  chuckling;  "it  wouldn't  make  no  differ 
ence  whuther  a  body  liked  my  dinner  or  not." 

"  Now,  pap,  you  oughten  ter  talk  that  way,  and 
you  know  it.  It  do  seem  to  me  sometimes  that  you 
would  make  fun  of  anything  on  the  face  of  the  yeth. 
But  I  reckon  you  can't  help  it.  I  reckon  it  was  jest 
nachully  borned  in  you.  Mr.  Andrews,  you  must 
help  yo'self  and  not  wait  for  pap,  for  he  never  was 
a  hand  to  help  a  body." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  old  fellow,  "  this  is  the  first 
I  ever  heard  of  that.  I'll  help  his  plate  as  fast  as 
he  can  empty  it  and  that  is  about  all  anybody 
can  da" 


30  MISS   MADAM. 


CHAPTER  ELL 

THE  days  passed,  but  Andrews  said  nothing  more 
about  taking  the  school,  except  on  one  occasion 
when  he  remarked  that  it  would  better  to  wait  until 
the  corn  should  be  "  laid  by."  Old  Bradshaw  and 
his  wife  appeared  to  be  much  pleased  with  him. 
At  evening  and  sometimes  at  noon,  he  would  read 
Spurgeon's  sermons  to  them,  from  a  tattered  book 
that  had  mysteriously  found  its  way  into  the  neigh 
borhood;  and  the  old  man,  with  his  chair  tilted 
back  against  the  wall,  never  failed  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  his  wife  never  failed  to  chide  him.  The  visitor 
essayed  to  show  his  usefulness  in  more  than  one 
way,  and  once  he  made  a  pretense  of  helping  Miss 
Madam  and  Little  Dave  hoe  a  piece  of  creek  bottom 
corn  where  the  land  had  been  "broken  up"  wet  and 
which  was  too  cloddy  to  be  plowed,  but  the  heat  of 
the  sun  soon  drove  him  in  the  shade.  The  girl 
laughed  gleefully  at  his  lack  of  endurance  and  said 
that  he  ought  to  wear  a  sun-bonnet  and  tie  it  under 
his  chin  as  she  did.  The  boy  did  not  laugh,  nor 
did  he  express  the  contempt  he  fait,  fearing  that  he 
might  arouse  Andrews'  pride  and  thereby  nerve  him 
to  the  determination  of  overcoming  his  aversion  for 


MISS  MADAM.  81 

the  toilsome  employment.  Andrews  went  into  the 
deep  woods  and  sat  on  a  log  in  a  small,  new-made 
clearing  where  a  lank  and  stoop-shouldered  man  was 
riving  clapboards. 

"Don't  reckon  yeu  ever  done  any  work  of  this 
sort,"  said  the  man. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  ever  did." 

"You  don't  think  so?  Why,  if  you'd  ever  have 
done  it  you'd  know  it  blamed  well,  and  there  wouldn't 
be  any  thinkin'  about  it.  You  are  stoppin'  at  Brad- 
shaws,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  Hearn  you  are  goin*  to  take  up  a  school." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  doing  so.'* 

"You  was  thinkin'  so,  eh?  You  don't  pear  to 
know  nothin'  for  certain.  Jest  sorter  think  so  all 
the  time.  t)on't  see  how  you  could  1'arn  a  child 
much.  Don't  believe  I'd  sign  for  mor'n  a  third  of 
a  scholar.  Wall,  I  must  be  goin'.  Hope  you've 
got  sense  enough  to  find  yo'  way  out  of  here." 

He  took  up  his  f row  and  slouched  himself  away ; 
and  Andrews,  stretching  himself  on  a  log,  mused 
and  dozed  in  the  shade,  lulled  by  the  soft,  varying 
and  never  familiar  harmonies  of  a  thousand  buzz- 
ings,  as  far  off  and  as  subdued  as  an  echo,  and  yet 
as  close  as  a  song  poured  directly  into  the  ear.  A 
rustling  of  the  dry  leaves  on  the  ground  startled 
him,  and  looking  up  he  saw  Miss  Madam  coming 
toward  him. 


82  MISS  MADAM. 

"We've  got  that  piece  of  corn  done,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  now  but  go  after  the 
cows  and  drive  'em  home." 

"  Sit  down  and  rest  yourself." 

"I  ain't  very  tired,"  she  rejoined,  seating  her 
self  on  the  log. 

"  But  you  must  be  nearly  roasted  with  that  hot 
sunbonnet" 

"  I  am  pretty  warm."  She  took  off  her  bonnet 
and  sat  swinging  it  by  the  strings. 

"You  were  never  in  town,  were  you?" 

"No,  not  exactly,  but  I  went  with  pap  once  when 
he  went  'way  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  to 
vote,  and  we  eat  dinner  with  a  man  that  lived  thar, 
and  jest  before  we  started  home  we  saw  some  men 
get  into  a  fight  and  one  of  them  was  cut  nearly  all 
to  pieces  with  a  knife.  I  reckon  they  do  worse  than 
that  in  a  regular  town  whar  they  vote  all  the  time. 
Pap  says  that  he  wouldn't  live  in  a  town,  and  ha 
has  been  thar,  but  he  knows  that  some  of  the  people 
that  live  thar  are  good  and  kind,  for  the  jedge  and 
his  wife  that  give  pap  and  mother  the  hoss  must 
have  lived  in  town,  but  Little  Dave  says  that  he  bet 
he  didn't,  but  Little  Dave  is  mighty  briggity  some 
times.  I  must  go  on  after  the  cows." 

"I  will  go  with  you." 

"  I  am  goin'  with  her,"  said  Little  Dave,  coming 
oat  of  the  bushes. 


MISS  MADAM.  33 

'*  Why,  how  come  you  here?"  she  cried, 

"  How  come  you  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

44  Why,  I  jest  come,  that's  all." 

"  Wall,  I  jest  come  too,  but  that  ain't  all."  • 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  to  help  me  drive  up  the  cows." 

"You  didn't  tell  him,  nuther." 

"  But  he  can  go  if  he  wants  to,  can't  he,  Mr. 
Smarty?" 

"Yes,  and  I  can  go  too,  whuther  he  wants  me  to 
or  not." 

"  Oh,  you  think  you  are  so  smart." 

"  That's  all  right.  I'm  goin'  with  you  after  them 
cows  all  the  same." 

"  Young  fellow,"  said  Andrews,  looking  steadily 
at  the  cripple,  "it's  time  you  were  dropping  your 
foolishness.  I  am  not  interfering  with  you  in  the 
least,  and  it  is  none  of  your  business  whether  I  go 
with  this  young  lady  or  not.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

The  cripple's  thin  lips  parted  in  an  evil-drawn 
smile. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,  young  man." 

The  cripple  smiled  again  and  taking  a  knife  from 
his  pocket,  opened  a  long,  keen  blade,  looked  up  at 
Andrews  and  quietly  remarked:  "That's  what  a 
man  'lowed  once  when  he  met  a  wild  cat  in  the 
country  road,  and  he  talked  mighty  earnest  and  he 
meant  what  he  said,  too,  I  reckon,  but  when  he  went 
away  his  shirt  was  badly  tore  and  he  found  out 


34  MISS   MADAM. 

• 

shortly  afterwards  that  he  had  done  left  one  of 
his  ears  hangin1  on  a  bush." 

"Miss  Madam,"  said  Andrews,  turning  to  the 
girl,  "  it  is  not  my  desire  to  quarrel  with  a  crippled 
boy,  and  rather  than  give  him  a  chance  to  whine,  I 
will  surrender  the  pleasure  of  going  with  you." 

Little  Dave  amiled  again  and  put  up  his  knife. 

That  night  after  supper,  Bradshaw  said  that  he 
had  a  job  of  work  that  all  hands  could  help  him 
perform.  "  We  have  been  runnin'  along  in  a  push 
until  we  are  about  out  of  meal,"  said  he,  "  and  we 
must  shell  enough  corn  to-night  to  take  to  mill  to 
morrow  ;  and  might  as  well  take  several  bags  while 
we  are  at  it." 

The  corn  was  brought  to  the  house  and  was  placed 
on  a  sheet  spread  on  the  floor.  Andrews  declared 
that  he  could  beat  Miss  Madam  shelling,  and  she 
laughingly  accepted  the  challenge.  Little  Dave 
glanced  at  Andrews  and,  getting  down  on  his  knees, 
began  work.  After  a  time  he  looked  up  and  said: 
"  Have  to  take  the  wagon,  I  reckon." 

"Of  course,"  the  old  man  answered. 

"  Who's  goin'  ?  " 

"  Why,  you." 

"I  want  Miss  Madam  to  go,  too." 

"What's  the  use  of  her  takin1  all  that  jant?" 

"Wall,  then,  I  want  Mr.  Andrews  to  go." 

"Gracious    alive!"    exclaimed    Mrs.    Bradshaw, 


MISS   MADAM.  35 

"  has  the  boy  gone  daft  ?  Why,  I  reckon  he'll  want 
the  whole  fam'ly  to  go  next." 

"  Little  Dave,"  said  the  old  man,  "  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  lately  ?  " 

"I  ain't  blind  is  the  trouble,  I  reckon." 

"  You  uster  go  to  mill  aud  not  Bay  a  word  about 
not  wantin'  to  go  by  yo'self.  You  sholy  ain't  afraid 
of  anything,  are  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

4<  What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"A  thing  that  calls  himself  a  man." 

"  Pap,  I  do  believe  he  has  gone  daft,  and  I 
wouldn't  like  to  trust  the  horses  with  him,"  said  the 
old  woman. 

"Nonsense,  'Lizabuth,  he's  jest  got  one  of  his 
tantrums,  and  ding  me  if  he  shan't  go  if  it  takes  all 
the  hide  off.  I  have  been  too  kind  to  you,  suh,  to 
Btand  any  of  yo'  foolishness,  and  I  want  you  to  get 
up  when  I  call  you  and  hitch  up  them  horses.  Do 
you  hear?" 

"Yes,  suh,  I  hear." 

"Wall,  are  you  going  to  mind?" 

"You've  been  too  kind  to  me  for  me  not  to 
mind." 

"  All  right,  then ;  that  settles  it." 

The  cripple  did  not  speak  again  that  night,  but 
in  apparent  unconcern  of  what  passed  about  him, 
knelt  on  the  sheet  and  shelled  corn  until  the  work 


36  MISS   MADAM. 

was  done,  and  then  getting  up  he  gaye  Andrews  a 
quick  glance  and  ascended  the  stairway  that  led  to 
his  sleeping  place. 

Andrews  heard  them  loading  the  corn  long  before 
daylight  was  sprinkled  through  the  roof;  he  heard 
the  dogs  prancing  in  many  a  whining  caper  on  the 
veranda ;  he  heard  the  wagon  roll  away,  and  then  he 
dozed  with  early  morning  stretchiness,  and  dreamed 
that  he  saw  thin  lips  that  bespoke  many  a  night  of 
lonely  suffering,  part  in  a  cold  and  threatening 
smile.  Old  Bradshaw  rapped  on  the  stairway  and 
cried  that  breakfast  was  ready,  and  Andrews  sat  up 
in  bed  and  mused:  "  Why  do  I  stay  here ?  Would 
any  other  human  being — but  don't  I  stay  because  I 
am  a  human  being?"  He  found  the  girl  joyous 
when  he  went  down  stairs.  She  struck  at  him  with 
a  broom,  and,  darting  away,  defied  him  to  catch 
her.  The  old  man,  who  stood  near,  laughed  at  her 
frolicksomeness,  but  his  manner  changed  a  moment 
later  when  he  saw  the  pale  and  despondent  face  of 
his  wife. 

"'Lizabuth,  what's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"  Come  to  breakfast,"  she  said. 

"  But  what's  the  matter  ?  "  he  repeated,  following 
her  aa  she  turned  toward  the  table  on  the  veranda. 

"You  know  what  the  matter  is  better  than  I  can 
tell  you.  Sit  down  and  help  yo'self,  Mr.  Andrews." 

"Shall  I  read  you  one  of  Spurgeon's  sermons 


MISS   MADAM.  37 

after  breakfast?"  the  guest  asked,  knowing  that 
she  was  again  in  doubt  as  to  the  election  of  her 
soul. 

"  No,  I  am  obleeged  to  you,  for  I  hardly  think  it 
would  do  me  any  good.  I  reckon  I  was  borned  to 
be  lost.  The  preacher  said  that  thar  was  a  certain 
Dumber  of  souls  to  be  saved  and  a  certain  number 
to  be  lost,  and  I  don't  think  thar's  any  use  for  me 
to  try." 

" 'Lizabuth,"  said  the  old  man,  "if  thar  was 
any  such  thing  as  a  woman  listenin'  to  reason,  I 
could  soon  convince  you  that  you  are  doing  yo'self 
a  great  wrong  by  givin'  away  to  these  spells.  You 
take  everything  the  preacher  says  as  law  and  gospel, 
when  the  truth  is,  he  don't  know  any  mo'  about  it 
than  we  do.  He  gits  his  knowledge  from  the  Bible, 
and  so  do  we;  we  can't  find  no  other  book  to  git 
that  knowledge  from,  and  nuther  can  he.  If  you 
believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  still  think 
that  yo'  soul  is  goin'  to  be  lost,  you  must  acknowl 
edge  that  the  whole  plan  of  salvation  is  wrong  and 
that  Christ  died  in  vain.  Paul  told  the  jailer  to 
believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  be  baptized 
and  he  should  be  saved.  You  believe  on  Him  and 
have  been  baptized.  Now  what  stronger  proof  do 
you  want  ?  But  you  still  cling  to  the  idee  that  a 
certain  number  are  to  be  saved  and  a  certain  num 
ber  to  be  lost.  Wall,  let  us  say  that  a  certain  num« 


38  MISS   MADAM. 

her  ure  to  be  lost,  and  that  the  certain  number  are 
the  ones  that  refuse  to  believe." 

"  Pap,  I  reckon  you  are  right,  but  still  I  feel 
mighty  bad." 

"  Of  course  you  do,  and  it  is  mainly  because  yo' 
time  for  feelin'  that  way  has  come  and  you  don't 
want  to  disapp'int  yo'self  by  feelin'  any  other  way." 

"  Now,  pap,"  she  whined,  "  you  jest  know  that  a 
body  wants  to  feel  as  well  as  they  can.  But  I  do 
know  that  people  have  cause  to  think  hard  of  me, 
and  that  makes  me  feel  bad  for  one  thing.  I  try  my 
best,  though,  and  still  I  can't  get  'em  nothin'  fitten 
to  eat  when  they  come  here." 

"  Madam,"  said  Andrews,  "it  is  now  time  for  me 
to  speak.  So  long  as  your  fears  are  confined  to 
your  soul  I  am  compelled  to  remain  silent,  but  when 
you  include  your  cookery,  I  must  lift  my  voice  in 
its  defense,  for,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  there  is 
not  a  hotel  in  the  country  that  can  prepare  a  meal 
as  appetizingly  as  you  do." 

"  But  I  jest  know  this  chicken  ain't  fried  right," 
she  persisted,  still  feeling  about  for  a  basis  of 
despondency. 

"  A  saint  that  had  served  half  his  life  in  a  kitchen 
couldn't  fry  it  better,"  Andrews  declared. 

"  That  eased  her  mightily,"  the  old  man  whis 
pered,  "  but  it  won't  be  long  till  she  fumbles  around 
and  liuds  something  else  to  feel  bad  about" 


> 


MISS   MADAM.  5U 

During  the  forenoon  Miss  Madam  and  Andrews 
fished  in  a  small  stream  not  far  away,  but  i"iey  were 
housed  during  the  afternoon  by  a  furious  down-pour 
of  rain.  Evening  came  and  still  Little  Dave  had  not 
returned.  The  old  man  would  step  to  the  door 
occasionally  and  gaze  anxiously  down  the  darkening 
road.  "  I  am  afraid,"  said  he,  "  that  Caney  Fork 
has  riz  so  that  he  can't  git  back.  I  hope  he  won't 
try,  for  if  he  does  the  horses  will  be  drounded 
shure." 

They  eat  up  until  late  and  then,  convinced  that 
the  boy  had  put  up  somewhere  for  the  night,  went 
to  bed.  It  seemed  to  Andrews  that  he  had  just 
fallen  asleep  when  he  was  awakened  by  voices  down 
stairs. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  tried  to  git 
across  the  creek,"  the  old  man  exclaimed. 

"  I  did  git  across  the  creek." 

"  But  whar  are  them  hosses  ?  " 

"  I  din't  try  to  drive  'em  through.  The  creek  was 
so  high  that  I  left  them  at  Perdue's." 

"  How  did  you  git  across? " 

"  I  swum." 

"  Is  that  how  you  bruised  yo'  face?" 

"  Yes,  ag'in  the  drift  wood  and  bresh." 

"  It  is  a  thousand  wonders  you  hadn't  drounded. 
Why  the  deuce  didn't  you  stay  at  Perdue's 
ruther  than  swim  that  creek  and  trudge  all  the  way 
back  here  afoot?" 


40  MISS   MADAM. 

"  'Cause  I  wanted  to  come  home." 

"  Little  Dave,  it  do  look  to  me  like  you've  lost 
about  all  the  sense  you  ever  had.  Wall,  as  soon  as 
you  git  breakfast  in  the  mornin' — though  I  reckon 
you  better  wait  a  hour  or  so  'till  the  creek  runs 
down — you  git  on  old  Joe  and  go  right  back  after 
that  wagon  and  team." 

"  Will  Miss  Madam  go,  too?  " 

"  Look  here,  boy;  what  the  devil  is  the  matter 
with  you?" 

"  Pap,  oh,  pap,"  the  old  woman  called. 

«'  Wall,  what  is  it,  'Lizabuth?  " 

41  You  mustn't  talk  thater  way." 

"That's  all  right;  you  go  to  sleep.  You  oughter 
staid  with  the  hosses,  Little  Dave,  and  you  must  go 
right  back  as  soon  as  ever  the  creek  runs  down." 

"Will  Andrews  go  if  Miss  Madam  don't?" 

"  What  in  the  name  of — go  to  bed.  I  don't  want 
to  hear  another  word  out  of  you." 

Little  Dave  did  not  sit  down  to  breakfast  with  the 
family  the  next  morning,  and  Andrews  did  not  see 
him  until  the  forenoon  was  well  spent,  when  the 
boy,  silent  and  with  sudden  pallor  of  countenance, 
mounted  an  old  horse  and  started  off  down  the  road. 
The  old  man,  humming  a  tune  improvised  by  the 
bubbling  kindness  of  his  heart,  went  to  his  work 
of  chopping  sassafras  sprouts  from  the  corners  of 
the  fence;  but  his  wife,  still  troubled  over  the  possi- 


MISS  MADAM. 

ble  condemnation  of  her  soul,  and  fearful  that  her 
guest  had  not  spoken  from  the  heart  when  he  com 
plimented  her  ability  to  iry  a  chicken,  sighed  dis 
tressingly  as  she  worked  in  the  kitchen. 

"Mother,"  said  Miss  Madam,  "I  do  hope  you  ain't 
goin'  to  have  another  spell.  Here  of  late  you  don't 
mo'  than  git  out  of  one  till  you  are  into  another." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  spells,  child.  You  don't 
know  what  a  spell  is.  It  do  seem  to  me  like  I  git 
less  and  less  happiness  out  of  this  life  as  the  years 
roll  on,  and  what  will  become  of  me  after  a  while 
the  Lord  only  knows." 

"I  think  we've  all  got  something  to  be  happy  for, 
mother.  I  never  was  as  happy  in  my  life  as  I  am 
now,  and  it  seems  that  I  get  happier  and  happier 
every  day." 

Supper  was  over  long  before  Little  Dave  returned, 
and  when  he  did  come,  he  walked  through  the  house 
without  stopping,  and,  paying  no  attention  to  a 
remark  addressed  to  him  by  Mrs.  Bradshaw,  went 
into  the  yard,  looking  about  and  listening  as  he 
walked  with  strange  cautiousness.  Suddenly  he 
halted,  and  then  turning,  went  toward  the  woods  lot 
and  stopped  behind  a  tree.  Andrews  was  sitting  on  a 
smooth  log,  where  the  cattle  came  to  lick  salt,  and 
Miss  Madam  was  standing  near  him.  The  moon 
was  shining,  and  a  small  pond,  which  the  ducks 
kept  in  a  state  of  trouble  all  day,  seemed  to  siuiie 
in  thankfulness  for  an  evening  of  rest. 


42  MISS   MADAM. 

"And  do  you  think  that  you  would  continue  to 
love  me,  no  matter  what  might  happen?"  Andrews 
asked. 

"Oh,  nothin'  could  happen  to  change  me.  You 
must  know  that.  You  know  that  I " 

"Come  on  all  hands,  it's  bed  time,"  old  man  Brad- 
ehaw  shouted  from  the  house. 

The  next  morning  when  Bradshaw  rapped  on  the 
stairway,  there  came  no  reply  from  above.  He 
rapped  again,  louder  than  before,  and  then  went  up 
stairs.  Andrews  was  not  there,  nor  had  the  bed 
been  occupied.  The  old  man,  with  wonder  and  sur 
prise  pictured  upon  his  face,  went  down  stairs.  Lit 
tle  Dave  met  him,  and,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  said: 

"His  hoss  ain't  in  the  stable." 

"Is  it  possible  that  he  is  gone?" 

"Who's  gone?"  Miss  Madam  excitedly  asked. 

"Andrews.  His  bed  ain't  been  slept  in,  and  Lit 
tle  Dave  says  his  hoss  is  gone." 

The  girl  ran  up  stairs — ran  out  to  the  stable — 
came  drooping  back  and  went  to  her  room  up  under 
the  clapboard  roof.  . 

"This  do  beat  me,"  the  old  man  declared. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Bradshaw  asked,  com 
ing  from  the  kitchen. 

"Andrews  has  run  away." 

"Mercy  on  me,  how  could  he  when  we  all  thought 
BO  much  of  him.  Look  about  and  you  mout  find 
him  some  whar,  pap." 


MISS  MADAM.  46 

''What  would  he  be  doin'  round  here  when  his 
hoss  is  gone?  Don't  be  foolish,  'Lizabuth." 

Little  Dave  went  out  to  the  field  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  and  while  the  old  man  stood  in  the 
yard,  looking  across  the  cleared  land,  he  saw  the 
boy  viciously  strike  the  fence  with  his  hoe.  Miss 
Madam  did  not  come  down  to  dinner;  she  did  not 
come  down  to  supper. 

"She  is  not  well,"  Mrs.  Bradshaw  explained. 
The  old  man  silently  nodded  his  head. 

Early  the  next  morning  two  men  rode  up  to  the 
gate.  The  appearance  of  the  men  pronounced  them 
strangers  in  that  neighborhood.  News  might  be 
expected. 

"We  are  looking  for  a  young  fellow  that  we  under 
stand  has  been  stopping  here,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
"We  are  officers  of  the  law  from  Louisville.  The 
man  Hitchpeth,  who  has  been  stopping  with  you, 


"No  man  by  that  name  has  been  here,"  Bradshaw 
interrupted,, 

"That  is  his  name,  but  you  know  him  as  Andrews. 
He  is  the  defaulting  cashier  of  a  bank  and  we  want 
him." 

"He  is  gone,"  the  old  man  said. 

"When  did  he  go?" 

"Must  have  gone  last  night." 

"Have  you  any  idea  which  way  he  went?" 

"No," 


44  HISS   MADAM. 

The  men  rode  away  and  Miss  Madam,  who  had 
run  down  stairs,  dropped  back  to  her  hiding  place. 
Late  that  evening,  while  the  old  man  and  Little 
Dave  were  feeding  the  horses,  one  of  the  officers 
came  into  the  barn. 

"Well,  old  man,  we  caught  him ;  found  him  about 
fifteen  miles  from  here  pretty  comfortably  fixed  in 
a  farm-house.  We  don't  want  to  go  on  any  farther 
to-night,  and  would  like  to  stop  with  you  until 
morning.** 

"You  can't  stay,"  Bradshaw  answered.  "I  don't 
want  to  see  him  ag'in." 

"But  can't  we  stay  in  that  old  cabin  down  in  the 
hollow?" 

"Don't  care  whar  you  stay  so  you  don't  bring  him 
near  me." 

The  weather  was  hot  and  the  officers  remained  on 
the  outside  of  the  cabin,  in  which  their  prisoner  was 
confined.  The  door,  which  opened  outward,  was 
securely  propped  with  a  log. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  drink  of  water,"  one  of  the 
men  remarked. 

"Here,  too.  There's  a  spring  right  down  yonder. 
Suppose  you  go  to  the  house  and  get  a  cup." 

"I  don't  care  to,  that  old  fellow  is  so  cranky. 
Let's  go  down  to  the  spring.  The  prisoner  has 
been  sound  asleep  for  an  hour ;  the  door  is  propped 
all  right,  and  he  couldn't  possibly  get  out  before  we 
get  back." 


MISS   MADAM.  45 

They  started  off  toward  the  spring.  Little  Dave, 
carrying  a  hatchet  in  his  hand,  stepped  from  behind 
a  tree  and  approached  the  cabin.  He  hastily,  and 
yet  without  a  sound,  climbed  up  one  corner  and 
crawled  out  on  the  roof.  He  made  an  opening  by 
removing  a  number  of  clap-boards  and  then  climbed 
down  inside. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  early  morning.  Miss  Madam  sat  on  the 
smooth  log  where  the  cattle  came  to  lick  salt.  The 
ducks  had  just  begun  to  trouble  the  water  of  the 
pond.  The  girl  sat  with  her  hands  lying  listlessly 
in  her  lap. 

"Good  mornin'." 

She  started,  looked  up  and  found  Little  Dave 
standing  near  her.  He  carried  a  handkerchief 
rolled  into  a  small  bundle. 

"Go  away,  Little  Dave;  I  don't  want  to  see  you." 

"I  won't  go  till  I  give  you  this  present  that  some 
body  said  give  you." 

He  placed  the  rolled  handkerchief  in  her  lap. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Look  and  see." 


HISS   MADAM. 

She  took  up  the  bundle  and  unrolled  it.     "Mercy, 
what  is  this?"  she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet 
"His  heart!"  the  cripple  shrieked — and  fled. 

******** 

The  afternoon  had  come.  Little  Dave  was  gone. 
In  the  house,  the  old  woman  weighted  down  with 
the  news  of  an  awful  tragedy,  and  crushed  by  the 
fear  that  her  own  soul  was  doomed  to  an  endless 
torment,  cried  aloud  in  the  hopeless  voice  of  pitiable 
lamentation.  The  old  man  walked  slowly  in  the 
orchard,  with  his  hands  held  behind  him.  He  saw 
Miss  Madam  on  her  knees  under  an  apple  tree,  and 
going  nearer,  he  saw  her  patting  the  earth  about  a 
little  mound — he  saw  a  bloody  handkerchief  on  the 
ground  not  far  away. 

"What  are  you  doin'  here,  my  poor  little  angel?" 
"I  am  buryin'  a  bird,"  she  sobbed,  without  look 
ing  up. 

******** 

The  months  passed.  One  night  when  the  rain 
was  falling  on  the  clapboard  roof,  the  old  woman  lay 
helpless  on  her  bed. 

"Pap,"  she  asked,  "are  you  and  Miss  Madam 
here?" 

"Yes,  'Lizabuth,  here  we  are." 

"Raise  me  up."  He  raised  her  and  held  her  in 
his  arms  For  a  few  momenta  ehe  was  quiet,  and 
ehe  cried  in  a  weak,  ihough  joyous  voice;  'Oh, 


MISS  MADAM. 


47 


mussyful  God— oh,  heavenly  Saviour,  now  I  know 

that  I  am  elected." 

******** 

A  journey-soiled  man  stopped  at  Bradshaw's  to 
stay  over  night.  He  saw  a  sad  old  man  and  a  girl 
whose  face  was  sweet  with  the  resignation  that 
comes  after  deep  suffering. 

"And  this  is  Bradley  county,"  said  the  traveler. 
"The  name  reminds  me  of  a  circumstance  that  took 
place  in  Texas  not  long  ago.  I  was  herdin'  cattle  at 
the  time,  and  among  other  cow-boys,  hired  a  young 
feller  that  was  sorter  crippled.  One  day  a  mad 
steer  knocked  him  off  his  horse  and  prnned  him  to 
the  ground  with  his  horns.  I  ran  to  him  and  he 
mumbled  something,  but  all  I  understood  was  Brad- 
ley  county,  Kentucky — Little  Dave." 

******* 

Under  the  apple  tree  where  the  girl  had  "buried 
a  bird,"  there  is  another  little  mound— a  baby's 
grave. 


A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY. 


A  SUNDAY  in  the  backwoods  of  Tennessee,  viewed 
by  one  whose  feet  rarely  stray  from  the  worn  paths 
of  active  life,  may  hold  nothing  attractive,  but  to 
the  old  men  and  women — the  youth  and  maiden  of 
the  soil — it  is  a  poem  that  comes  once  a  week  to 
encourage  young  love  with  its  soft  sentiment  and 
soothe  old  labor  with  its  words  of  promise.  In  the 
country  where  the  streams  are  so  pure  that  they 
look  like  strips  of  sunshine,  where  the  trees  are  so 
ancient  that  one  almost  stands  in  awe  of  them, 
where  the  moss,  so  old  that  it  is  gray,  and  hanging 
from  the  rocks  in  the  ravine,  looks  like  venerable 
beards  growing  on  faces  that  have  been  hardened  by 
years  of  trouble — in  such  a  country,  even  the  most 
slouching  clown,  walking  as  though  stepping  over 
clods  when  plowing  where  the  ground  breaks  up 
hard,  has  in  his  untutored  heart  a  love  of  poetry.  He 
may  not  be  able  to  read — may  never  have  heard  the 
name  of  a  son  of  genius,  but  in  the  evening,  when 
he  stands  on  a  purple  "knob,"  watching  the  soul  of 
day  sink  out  of  sight  in  a  far-away  valley,  he  is  a 
poet. 

4  49 


50  A   BACKWOODS   SUNDAY. 

When  the  shadow  of  Saturday  night  falls  upon  a 
backwoods  community  in  Tennessee,  a  quiet  joy 
seems  to  lurk  in  the  atmosphere.  The  whippoor- 
will  has  sung  unheeded  every  night  during  the 
week,  but  to-night  his  song  brings  a  promise  of 
rest.  The  tired  boy  sits  in  the  door,  and,  taking 
off  his  shoes,  strikes  them  against  the  log  door 
step  to  knock  the  dirt  out;  and  the  cat  that  has  fol 
lowed  the  women  when  they  went  to  milk  the 
cows,  comes  and  rubs  against  him.  The  humming 
bird,  looking  for  a  late  supper,  buzzes  among  the 
huneysuckle  blossoms,  and  the  tree-toad  cries  in  the 
locust  tree.  The  boy  goes  to  bed,  thrilled  with  an 
eipectation.  He  muses:  "I  will  see  somebody 
to-morrow." 

On  the  morrow  the  woods  are  full  of  music.  The 
great  soul  of  day  rises  with  a  burst  of  glory,  and 
the  streams,  bounding  over  the  rocks  or  dreaming 
among  the  ferns,  laugh  more  merrily  and  seem  to 
be  brighter  than  they  were  yesterday.  Horses 
neigh  near  an  old  log  church  and  a  swelling  hymn 
is  borne  away  on  the  blossom -scented  air.  The 
plow-boy,  sitting  near  the  spring,  heeds  not  the 
sacred  music  but  gazes  intently  down  the  shady 
road.  He  sees  some  one  coming — sees  the  flutter 
ing  of  a  gaudy  ribbon  and  is  thrilled.  A  young 
woman  comes  up  the  road,  coyly  tapping  an  old 
mare  with  a  dogwood  switch,  and  eager  lest  some 


A   BACKWOODS   SUNDAY.  51 

one  else  may  perform  the  endearing  office,  he 
hastens  to  help  the  young  woman  to  alight.  He 
tries  to  appear  unconcerned  as  he  takes  hold  of  the 
bridle  rein,  but  he  stumbles  awkwardly  as  he  leads 
the  animal  toward  the  horse-block.  When  he  has 
helped  her  down  and  has  tied  the  horse  it  is  his 
blessed  privilege  to  walk  with  the  girl  as  far  as  the 
church  door. 

"  What's  Jim  a-doin'  ?"  he  asks,  as  they  walk 
along  under  the  embarrassing  gaze  of  a  score  of 
men. 

"  Plowed  yistidy;  ain't  doin'  nothin'  to-day." 

"  Be  here  to-day,  I  reckon,"  he  rejoins. 

"  He  went  to  preachin'  at  Ebeneezer." 

"  What's  Tom  a-doin'  ?" 

"Went  to  mill -yistidy;  ain't  doin'  nothin'  to 
day." 

"  Be  here  to-day,  I  reckon." 

"  He  'lowed  he  mout,  but  I  don't  know  whether 
he  will  or  not." 

"What's  Alf  a-doin'?" 

"Cut  sprouts  an'  deadened  trees  yistidy;  ain't 
doin'  nothin'  to-day." 

"  Be  here  to-day,  I  reckon." 

"  Yes,  'lowed  he  was  a  comin'  with  Sue  Prior." 

"Anybody  goin'  home  with  you,  Liza?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Wall,  if  nobody  else  ain't  spoke  I'd  like  to  go." 


52  A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY. 

"  We'll  see  about  it,"  she  answers  and  then  enters 
the  church.  He  saunters  off  and  sits  down  under 
a  tree  where  a  number  of  young  men  are  wallow 
ing  on  shawls  spread  on  the  grass.  The  preacher 
becomes  warm  in  his  work  and  the  blow-boy  hears 
him  exclaim:  "  What  can  a  man  give  in  exchange 
for  his  own  soul;"  but  he  is  not  thinking  of  souls, 
or  of  an  existence  beyond  the  horizon  of  this  life ; 
his  mind  is  on  the  girl  with  the  gaudy  ribbon  and 
he  is  asking  his  heart  if  she  loves  him.  The 
shadows  arc  now  shorter  and  hungry  men  cast 
glances  at  the  sun,  but  the  preacher,  shouting  in 
broken  accents,  appears  not  to  have  reached  the  first 
mile-stone  of  his  text  and  it  is  evident  that  he 
started  out  with  the  intention  of  going  a  "  Sabbath 
day's  journey."  One  young  fellow  places  his  straw 
hat  over  his  face  and  tries  to  sleep  but  some  one 
tickles  him  with  a  spear  of  grass.  An  old  man  who 
has  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could  in  the  house  and 
who  has  come  out  and  lain  down,  gets  up,  stretches 
himself,  brushes  a  clinging  leaf  «ff  his  gray  jeans 
trousers  and  declares:  "  A  bite-  to  eat  would  hit  me 
harder  than  a  sermon  writ  on  a  rock.  Don't  see 
why  a  man  wantc  to  talk  all  day." 

14  Thought  you  was  mighty  fond  of  preachin', 
Uncle  John,"  some  one  remarks. 

**  Am,  but  I  don't  want  a  man  to  go  over  an* 
over  what  he  has  already  dun  said.  If  my  folks 


A  BACKWOODS   SUNDAY.  53 

want  in  thar  I'd  mosey  off  home  an*  git  suthin*  to 
eat." 

"  Good  book  says  a  man  don't  live  by  bread  alone, 
Uncle  John." 

"  Yas,  but  it  don't  say  that  he  lives  by  preachin* 
alone,  nuther.  HoP  on;  they  are  singin'  the  dox- 
ology  now,  an'  I  reckon  she  will  soon  be  busted." 

The  plowboy  goes  home  with  his  divinity — Uncle 
John's  daughter.  "  Reckon  Jim  will  be  at  home  ?" 
he  asks  as  they  ride  along. 

"  H»  mout  be.  Air  you  awful  anxious  to  see 
him?" 

"  Not  so  powerful.  Jest  'lowed  I'd  ask.  I  know 
who's  yo'  sweetheart,"  he  says  after  a  pause. 

"  Bet  you  don't" 

"  Bet  I  do." 

"Who  is  it  then,  Mr.  Smarty?" 

"  Aleck  Jones." 

"  Who,  him?  Think  I'd  have  that  freckled-face 
thing?" 

"  Wall,  if  he  ain't  I  know  who  is." 

"  Bet  you  couldn't  think  of  his  name  in  a  hun 
dred  years." 

"  You  mout  think  I  can't  but  I  can." 

"Wall,  who,  then,  since  you  are  so  smart?" 

"  Morg  Atcherson." 

"  Ho,  I  wouldn't  speak  to  him  if  I  was  to  me«t 
him  in  the  road." 


64  A  BACKWOODS   SUNDAY. 

"  But  you'd  speak  to  some  people  if  you  was  to 
meet  them  in  the  road,  wouldn't  you?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  would." 

"  Who  would  you  speak  to?" 

"  Oh,  lots  of  folks.  Did  you  see  that  bird  almost 
hit  me?"  she  suddenly  exclaims. 

48 1  reckon  he  'lowed  you  was  a  flower." 

"  Oh,  he  didn't,  no  such  of  a  thing.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yo'se'f  to  make  fun  of  me  thater 
way." 

"  I  wa'n't  makin'  fun  of  you.  Ho,  if  I  was  ter 
ketch  anybody  makin'  fun  of  you  it  wouldn't  be  good 
for  him." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"  I'd  whale  him." 

"  You  air  awful  brave,  ain't  you?'* 

"  Never  mind  whut  I  am ;  I  know  that  if  any 
man  was  to  make  fun  of  you  he'd  have  me  to 
whup." 

A  number  of  people  have  stopped  at  Uncle  John's 
house.  They  sit  in  the  large  passageway  running 
between  the  two  sections  of  the  log  building  and  the 
men,  who  have  not  heard  the  sermon,  discuss  it 
with  the  women  who  were  compelled  to  hear  it  from 
halting  start  to  excited  finish.  The  sun  is  blazing 
out  in  the  fields  and  the  June-bugs  are  buzzing  in 
the  yard.  It  is  indeed  a  day  of  rest  for  the  young 
and  old,  but  is  it  a  restful  time  for  the  housewife  ? 


A  BACKWOODS  SUNDAY. 


55 


Does  that  woman,  with  flushed  face,  running  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  dining-room  and  then  to  the 
spring-house  for  the  crock  jar  of  milk,  appear  to  be 
resting?  Do  the  young  men  and  women  that  are 
lolling  in  the  passage  realize  that  they  are  making 
a  slave  of  her?  Probably  not,  for  she  assures  them 
that  it  is  not  a  bit  of  trouble,  yet  when  night  comes 

when  the    company  is   gone-^-she   sinks   down, 

almost  afraid  to  wish  that  Sunday  might  never 
como  again,  yet  knowing  that  it  is  the  day  of  her 
heavy  bondage.  Old  labor  has  been  soothed  and 
young  love  has  been  encouraged,  but  her  trials  and 
anxieties  have  been  more  than  doubled. 

It  is  night  and  the  boy  sits  in  the  door,  taking 
off  his  shoes.  To-morrow  he  must  go  into  the  hot 
field  but  he  does  not  think  of  that.  His  soul  is  full 
of  a  buoyant  love— buoyant  for  the  girl  with  ohe 
gaudy  ribbon  has  promised  to  be  his  wife. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  WATCH. 


BBOOMBEBBY  was  on  his  way  down  town,  Intend- 

ing  to  get  off  at  the  Van  Bnren  street  station.    Jugt 

before  reaching  that  point  an  acquaintance  sat  down 

beside  him  and  began  to  talk  about  a  murder  that 

had  been  committed  just  a  year  before  on  the  North 

Side.  Being  a  city-hall  man,  Broomberry's  acquaint- 

ance  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  murder;  he  knew 

old  Kloptock,  the  victim,  and  in  an  exceedingly  die- 

creet   and   sunken-voiced  manner  he  intimated  to 

Broomberry  that  he  had  a  pretty  shrewd  idea  as  to 

who  committed  the  deed.      By  this  time  the  train 

had  passed  the  Van  Buren  street  station— was  just 

pulling  out,  in  fact,  and  Broomberry,  determined 

not  to  miss  an  appointment,  jumped  off  the  train. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  a  minute  later  and  found 

that  in  jumping  off  he  had  broken  the  crystal.   ^  He 

kept  his  appointment  and  then  stepped  into  a  jew- 

eler's  to  get  a  new  crystal. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it?  "  the  jeweler  asked  when, 
after  completing  his  work,  he  handed  the  watch  to 

Broomberry. 

"I got  it  from  a  friend  of  mine.    "Why?" 
a 


58  THE  HISTORY   OF  THE  WATCH. 

i 

"  Nothing,  only  you've  got  a  rare  watch,  not  in 
value  but  as  to  number.  About  thirty  years  ago  a 
company  of  men  built  a  factory  at  a  little  town 
called  Rcmney,  in  Massachusetts,  and  began  to 
manufacture  watches;  but,  as  some  sort  of  disaster 
befell  the  concern,  only  three  watches  were  ever 
completed,  and  thia  is  one  of  them." 

"  You  don't  say  BO  ?"  exclaimed  Bloomberry.  "Well, 
well;  and  I  shouldn't  have  known  of  the  rarity  of 
my  property  if  I  hadn't  broken  the  crystal  in  jump- 
ing  off  a  train  this  morning.  Do  you  know  what 
I'm  going  to  do?  I'm  going  to  trace  this  watch 
back  to  the  factory  if  I  can;  and  I'm  going  to  write 
a  description  of  the  hands  through  which  it  has 
passed  and  make  a  book  of  it  Won't  that  be  an 
odd  little  volume,  ' The  History  of  the  Watch? '  I 
am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir.  You've  given  me  an 
idea,  and  to  a  man  who  is  BO  unfortunate  as  to  be 
compelled  to  make  his  living  by  thinking,  an  idea  is 
almost  a  necessity.  Ah,  but  pardon  me  for  not 
vering  your  question.  I  got  the  watch  from 
II  nry  Lucas:  gave  him  $45  for  it  about  two  months 
If  the  history  should  be  interesting  enough 
to  print  I'll  give  you  a  copy  of  it.  Good-day." 

Broomberry  called  on  Henry  Lucas.  He  found 
his  friend  absorbed  in  the  work  of  "running  up" 
figures  in  an  immense  book. 

•'  Ah,  Broomberry.     Sit  down." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THB  WATCH. 

"No;  I  haven't  time.  Say,  where  did  you  get 
this  watch  ?  Only  three  of  them  made  and  all  that 
eort  of  thing.  Just  want  to  get  the  history  of  it, 
you  know." 

"  I  bought  it  from  a  fellow  named  Martin  Kelly." 

*  Where  do  you  suppose  I  can  find  him?  " 

41  He  works  in  the  postoffice." 

Broomberry  went  to  the  postoffice.  He  had 
struck  a  new  line  of  work  and  was  delighted.  Mr. 
Kelly  was  easily  *ound. 

"  I  got  it  from  Mark  Hammonds,"  said  he. 

"The  deuce  you  did!"  Broomberry  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  he  was  the  cause  of  my  breaking  the  crystal 
this  morning.  I  was  talking  to  him  and  passed  my 
station  and  then  had  to  jump  off.  Til  go  right  down 
to  the  city  hall  and  see  him." 

"  Where  did  I  get  it?  "  Hammonds  replied  in  a 
careless  sort  of  a  way.  "  Well,  let  me  see.  I  got 
it  from  J.  H.  McPeal,  a  big  furniture  dealer  on  the 
West  Side." 

"All  right;  I'll  go  over  there  and  see  him." 

The  great  furniture  dealer,  a  smooth,  well-fed, 
bald-headed  man,  was  busy  in  his  office  when  Broom- 
berry  entered. 

"  Well,  sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  about  this,"  said  Broomberry, 
taking  out  the  watch. 

**  Don't  know  anything  about  it,  sir.    Good-day." 


60  THE  HISTOBT  OF  THE  WATCH. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Broomberry,  "  but  my  friend, 
Mark  Hammonds,  of  the  city  hall,  told  me  that  he 
got  it  from  you." 

"  Ah,  let  me  see  it  Yes,  that's  so,"  he  added, 
when  Broomberry  had  handed  him  the  watch;  and 
then,  with  an  air  of  business,  as  though  he  had  been 
rather  lax  with  the  ethics  of  trade  and  must  now,  as 
a  recovery  of  principle,  make  a  show  of  briskness, 
he  asked:  "But  what  about  it,  sir — what  about  it ?" 

"  Nothing,  only  I  should  like  to  know  where  you 
got  it" 

41  Yes,  but  I  am  very  busy  to-day — exceedingly 
busy,  sir.  Can't  you  call  some  other  time  ?  " 

"Oh,  of  course;  but  it  won't  take  a  minute  to 
tell  me  where  you  got  it  if  you  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  so;  but  I'm  extremely  busy. 
Let  me  see.  We  took  it  in  part  payment  on  a  lot 
of  furniture — from,  let  me — Stevens,"  he  called. 

A  man  entered  and  said,  "  Yes,  sir." 

"  What's  the  name  of  that  boarding-house  woman 
that  couldn't,  or  rather  wouldn't,  pay  for  her  furni 
ture  in  money  and  we  had  to  take  a  watch  ?  What 
is  her  name?  Quick;  I'm  busy." 

"  Mrs.  Caddo,  sir;  742  Limbill  street" 

"  Yes,  that's  correct.     Good-day,  sir." 

Broomberry  hastened  to  the  boarding-house  of 
Mrs.  Caddo.  She  would  have  talked  an  hour  about 
the  watch,  or  by  it,  either.  She  would  have  told  of 


THE   HISTORY  OP  THE  WATCH.  61 

the  myriad  of  trials  that  come  to  the  widowed  keeper 
of  a  boarding-house,  and  she  did  tell  of  a  certain 
harness-maker  named  Sam  Haines,  who  had  boarded 
with  her,  who  was  drunk  nearly  all  the  time,  who 
positively  refused,  indeed,  in  a  most  insulting  man 
ner,  to  pay  his  board,  but  who,  after  being  threat 
ened  by  the  law,  and  by  a  certain  enormous 
policeman  who  knew  the  widow  quite  well,  con 
sented  to  give  her  his  watch.  This  Mr.  Sam  Haines 
could  be  found  in  Madison  street  near  Robey. 

Broomberry  found  the  harness-maker  drunk  and 
communicative.  He  got  the  watch  of  a  certain 
pawnbroker  and  would  neglect  his  work  to  go  and 
enow  Broomberry  the  place. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  can  find  it  easily  enough,"  said  the 
visitor,  taking  down  the  number. 

"  But  you  can't  find  it  as  well  as  if  I  went  with 
you,"  the  accommodating  harness-maker  insisted. 
"  You  bet  I'll  go  with  you.  Bet  your  life  on  that. 
You're  my  friend;  bet  your  life  on  that." 

Broomberry  hastened  away  and  heard  something 
that  sounded  like  "You  go  to  h — 1,  then;  bet  your 
life  on  that,"  as  he  went  out. 

The  pawnbroker  remembered  the  watch,  and,  turn 
ing  to  his  books,  said  that  it  had  been  sold  to  him 
by  one  H.  J.  Miles,  426  Rockland  street. 

Broomberry  started  out  to  look  for  the  street  and 
soon  discovered  that  there  was  no  such  place.  Ha 
returned  to  the  pawn  shop. 


62  THE    HISTORY   OF   THE   WATCH. 

*'  The  fellow  that  sold  you  this  watch  must  have 
come  by  it  dishonestly,"  he  said  to  the  broker. 

"  Very  likely,  sir.  We  have  no  means  of  fading 
out,  you  know.  All  we  can  do  is  to  take  the  name 
and  address,  or  what  we  suppose  to  be  such." 

"  Yes,  that's  true,  I  suppose.  But  do  you  think 
you'd  know  the  man  if  you  were  to  see  him  again?" 

"  Yes.  I  think  so." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  since  he  sold  you  tha 
watch?" 

"No,  I  think  not." 

*'  I  have,"  said  a  boy  standing  at  the  back  end 
of  the  place. 

"  Good ;  but  do  you  know  where  he  can  be  found  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  stays,  but  I  have  seen 
him  go  up  into  a  gambling  house." 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  will  go  with  me  and  point  him 
out  I  will  pay  you  well  for  your  trouble." 

Every  day  for  four  days  the  boy  went  with  Broom- 
berry  and  stood  near  a  narrow  stairway  on  Clark 
street,  and  just  as  they  were  about  to  leave  the 
place  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  the  boy 
clutched  Broomberry's  arm  and  said: 

"  That's  him  going  up  H«W." 

"All  right.     Here."     He  gave  the  boy  $5. 

Broomberry  went  up  into  the  gambling  den;  he 
closely  studied  the  man  that  had  been  pointed  out 
The  fellow  lost  his  money  and  went  down.  Broom- 


THE   HISTORY   OF   THE  WATCH,  68 

berry  followed  him.  He  went  to  a  sort  of  hotel  in 
Canal  street  and  Broomberry  kept  him  in  view.  He 
went  into  the  barroom  and  sat  down  at  a  table. 
Broomberry  approached  him,  indiscreetly,  too,  and 
said: 

"  Will  you  please  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  a  few 
questions  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  will  or  not,"  the  fellow 
growled,  but  Broomberry,  taking  no  notice  of  his  ill- 
humor,  sat  down. 

"I  am  about  to  write  a  little  history,"  said  he, 
"  and  think  you  may  be  able  to  help  me  out  on  it. 
I  have  in  my  possession  a  watch  which  I  have  traced 
to  you,  and  I  should  like  to  know  where  you — " 

The  fellow  jumped  up,  knocked  Broomberry  down 
and  disappeared  through  a  back  door.  When  the  his 
torian  got  up  and  brushed  himself  he  was  told  that 
a  policeman  had  caught  the  fellow — a  singular  out 
come,  surely.  The  fellow  was  brought  back  and 
then,  together  with  Broomberry,  was  taken  to  a 
police  station,  where  the  historian  related  his  story, 
and  then  there  came  a  sensation.  The  watch  had 
belonged  to  old  Kloptock  and  Broomberry  had 
found  the  murderer. 


OLD  LTJXTON'S  WOLF. 


"  DON'T  tell  me  that  the  thoroughly  good  fellow 
ever  can  become  a  financial  success,"  said  Luxtcn, 
the  old  printer.  "  Well,  wait  a  minute,"  he  quickly 
added,  seeing  that  one  of  company  was  about  to 
dispute  him.  "  I  admit  that  there  are  exceptional 
cases,  cases  where  accident  or  sudden  turn  of  fortune, 
depending  not  in  the  least  upon  that  trickery  which 
we  too  often  term  business  skill,  have  played  no 
part;  but  you  take  ten  eminently  successful  men 
and  I'll  warrant  that  in  nine  of  them  can  be  found 
a  prepondering  element  of  that  quality  known  as 
wolf  essence.  Oh,  I  know.  Selfishness,  extreme, 
unyielding  selfishness,  is  the  essential  oil  of  success. 
Let  me  give  you  an  illustration:  In  Nashville, 
Tenn.,  I  set  type  beside  a  most  genial  fellow  named 
Abe  Carson.  Every  instinct  seemed  to  be  that  of 
a  true  gentleman,  and  surely  no  one  had  a  tenderer 
heart.  He  held  himself  in  a  gentle  readiness  to 
perform  kind  offices ;  he  carried  encouraging  cheer 
fulness  into  the  sick  room;  he  and  harshness  were 
unknown  to  each  other.  One  night  I  noticed  that 
a  strange  sadness  had  settled  upon  him,  and  X 


66  OLD  LUXTON'S  WOLF. 

questioned  him,  but  he  answered  evasively.  The 
next  night  he  appeared  to  be  in  deeper  gloom,  but 
on  the  third  night  a  peculiar  change  took  place.  I 
happened  to  be  looking  at  him  when  the  darkness 
suddenly  fell  from  his  face  like  a  fog  lifted  from  the 
surface  of  a  pool,  but  unlike  a  pool  thus  suddenly 
cleared,  I  saw  no  pleasant  countenance  seeming  to 
rejoice  freedom — I  saw  a  face  bright  enough,  but 
hard;  eyes  light  enough,  but  cold. 

"'What's  the  matter,  Abe?'     I  could  not  help 
but  ask.     He  turned,  looked  steadily  at  me  for  a 
moment  and  then  said: 
m  "  '  Luxton,  we  have  always  been  friends?  ' 

"  '  Yes.' 

"  '  But  I  don't  think  we  shall  be  much  longer.' 

"  '  Why  ?'  I  asked  with  the  quick  impulse  of  aston 
ishment. 

"  '  Oh,  I've  undergone  a  change.  You  know  that 
I  have  been  what  people  are  pleased  to  call  a  good 
fellow.' 

"'Yes.' 

"  '  Well,  you  won't  hear  them  say  it  much  longer. 
When  a  man  becomes  known  as  a  good  fellow  the 
roadway  that  leads  to  success  is  closed  to  him. 
When  favors  are  to  be  distributed  they  are  given  to 
other  people.  You  know  that  I  am  one  of  the  most 
capable  compositors  in  the  city,  yet  I  have  worked 
for  ten  years  in  this  office  and  have  seen  incompetent 


OLD  LUXTON'S  WOLF.  67 

man  after  incompetent  man  placed  above  me  as  fore 
man.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  so  soon  as  a  man 
made  himself  thoroughly  disliked  he  was  in  line  for 
promotion.  I  have  been  a  gentleman  about  as  long 
as  I  can  afford  to  be,  and  I  am  going  to  make  myself 
available  for  the  foremanship  of  the  office.  Hereafter 
you  must  place  no  confidence  in  me;  I  am  a  wolf.' 

"  Within  a  week  from  that  time  I  discovered  that 
Abe  Carson  was  as  despisable  a  man  as  I  had  ever 
seen.  He  was  surly  and  selfish;  he  fawned  upon 
those  above  him  in  authority,  but  treated  his  equals 
with  contempt. 

"  Within  two  months  he  was  foreman  of  the  office, 
and  I,  his  old  friend,  finding  it  difficult  to  work  for 
BO  exacting  a  master,  sought  employment  elsewhere, 
but  I  kept  track  of  him.  Within  three  years  he 
owned  a  printing  office,  and  shortly  afterward  he 
was  made  independent  by  securing  the  state  printing. 
Everybody  said  he  was  a  wolf,  and  consequently  he 
had  more  work  than  he  could  do.  I  met  him  in  the 
street  one  day,  and  to  test  him  to  see  if  any  of  his 
old-time  friendship  for  me  were  alive  under  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  death  of  all  feeling,  I  asked  him  to 
lend  me  five  dollars. 

"  '  I'm  not  in  the  money  lending  business,'  said 
he,  looking  at  me  in  dark  disapproval.  '  You  haven't 
noticed  three  balls  hanging  in  front  of  my  door,  have 
you?' 


68  OLD  LUXTON'S  WOLF. 

"  '  No,  but  as  I  have  often  accommodated  you  iu 
the  past  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  contribute  to 
the  relief  of  my  present  necessities.' 

"  'That's  all  right;  but  I  haven't  any  money  to 
lend.  Nowhere,'  he  quickly  added,  fancying  doubt 
less  that  he  discovered  the  intention  of  a  coming 
protest;  'of  course  you  need  it  or  you  wouldn't  want 
to  borrow,  but  suppose  that  every  man  who  does 
need  it  could  borrow  ?  Hah  ?  What  do  you  suppose 
would  be  the  condition  of  the  business  world  ?  Hah  ? ' 

"  Then  I  told  him  that  I  was  merely  experiment 
ing  with  him,  that  I  didn't  need  any  money.  He 
didn't  seem  at  all  pleased.  'I  told  you  some  time 
ago  that  I  was  a  wolf,'  said  he,  '  but  you  were  de 
termined  to  open  my  mouth  and  look  at  my  teeth, 
eh?  "Well,  you  saw  them.' 

"  I  took  one  other  occasion  to  speak  to  Carson  and 
that  came  about  in  this  way:  A  man  came  to  me 
and  begged  me  to  see  Carson  at  onie  and  persuade 
him  to  reconsider  an  action  taken  that  morning.  '  I 
was  foreman  of  the  book  room,'  said  the  man,  '  and 
Carson  fired  me  out  because  a  few  reams  of  paper 
were  spoiled  in  the  cutting.  I  urged  that  I  would 
pay  for  the  loss,  but  in  a  most  cold-blooded  way  he 
made  me  get  out  of  the  office.  I  don't  know  what 
I  am  to  do,  work  is  dull,  and  I've  a  large  family.' 

"  I  went  to  see  Carson.  '  No,  sir,'  said  he,  '  the 
fellow  ruined  a  lot  of  paper  and  ought  to  be  taught 
a  lesson.' 


OLD  LUXTON'S  WOLF.  69 

"  *  But  he  says  he  will  pay  for  it.' 

"  'Yes,  I  know;  but  it's  my  duty  to  teach  him  a 
lesson;'  and  here  he  smiled  so  maliciously  that  I 
felt  a  strong  impulse  to  hit  him  in  the  mouth.  '  Ho 
is  competent  and  all  that,  but  he  must  go.  Say,  is 
it  possible  you  can't  learn  anything?  Didn't  I  tell 
you  that  I  am  a  wolf?  Hah?  And  didn't  I  give 
you  sufficient  proof?' 

"  '  I  accept  your  proof,'  I  replied,  and  indignantly 
marched  out.  Well,  years  passed,  and  about  five 
months  ago  I  got  a  letter  from  Carson.  '  My  dear 
old  friend,'  said  he,  'it  is  with  joy  that  I  tell  you  I 
am  no  longer  a  wolf.  It  was  never  my  nature  to  be, 
but  my  success  in  life  demanded  it.  And  now  that 
I  have  built  up  a  fortune,  I  have  returned  to  my  old 
self  and  henceforth  will  be  a  good  fellow — a  gentle 
man.' 

*'  You  can  well  imagine  my  emotions  upon  receiv 
ing  this  letter.  Carson,  the  long  estranged,  to  be  a 
good  fellow  again.  I  would  go  to  see  him ;  and  I 
set  the  fifth  of  the  month  as  the  day  when  I  should 
set  out  on  my  journey  of  pleasure,  a  journey  that 
should  take  me  back  not  to  the  state  printer,  but  to 
Abe  Carson,  the  gentlest  mam  I  ever  knew.  But  I 
didn't  go." 

"  Why  ?  "  some  one  asked. 

"  Because  I  saw  on  the  fourth  that  Carson  had 
fruled,  having  been  forced  to  the  wall  by  a  note 


70  OLD  LUXTON'S  WOLF. 

which  he  had  signed  for  a  friend,  and  that  in  his 
'  dejection  he  had  killed  himself." 

"Luxton,"  said  an  old  fellow,  taking  out  a  quid 
of  tobacco  and  striking  the  spittoon  with  a  spat,  "  I 
have  knocked  about  a  good  bit  and  have  met  quito 
a  number  of  men,  first  and  last,  and  just  at  this  time 
it  strikes  me  that  you  are  the  biggest  liar  I  ever 
saw." 


SHELLING  PEASE. 


AN  old  negro,  with  troubled  thought  embossed  on 
his  countenance,  was  seen  standing  on  the  bank  of 
a  river.  Certain  gestures,  implying  helplessness, 
and  the  peculiar  tone  of  his  mutterings  proclaiming 
despair,  might  have  led  one,  unacquainted  with 
negro  character,  to  suppose  that  the  old  fellow  was 
about  to  destroy  himself;  but  the  persons  who  were 
near  knew  that  a  black  negro  never  kills  himself 
purposely,  and  they  were,  therefore,  unmoved. 

After  a  while  the  old  negro  took  out  a  silver 
dollar,  looked  at  it  a  moment,  and  then  threw  it  into 
the  river. 

"Look  here,  what  did  you  do  then?"  a  man 
asked. 

"  I  flung  a  dollar  in  dis  yere  river,  Bah." 

"And  you're  the  biggest  fool  I  ever  saw." 

"  Mebbe  I  ain't  ez  big  er  fool  ez  you  think  I  is; 
mebbe  I  had  er  aim  in  flingin'  dat  money  er  way." 

"Aim  in  throwin'  it  away!  Was  it  that  you've 
got  too  much,  and  want  to  get  rid  of  it?" 

"  No,  bless  yo'  life  it  ain't.  De  Lawd  knows  dat 
der  ain't  er  man  in  dis  yere  'munity  dat  needs 
money  more'n  I  does." 


71 


72  SHELLING   PEASE. 

"Ah,  and  you  threw  that  dollar  away  because 
you  thought  it  would  bring  you  good  luck,  eh?" 

"  No,  sah,  caze  I  doan'  bleve  in  no  sich  er  'stition 
ez  dat" 

"  Well,  why  did  you  throw  your  dollar  away?" 

"  My  son,"  said  the  old  man,  "  you  ain't  ez  much 
o'  QT  floserfer  ez  I  is,  an'  darfo  you  doan  know  do 
tricks  dat  sarve  ter  turn  way  de  troubles  o'  dis 
yere  life.  Lemme  tell  you  suthin :  Some  time  de 
mine  kin  worry  so  long  ober  de  same  thing  dat  er 
pusson  will  go  crazy  ef  he  doan  make  his  mine 
change  de  subject.  Now,  dat's  'stablished  an' 
granted,  an'  we'll  git  down  ter  de  p'int.  Er  few 
weeks  ergo  I  got  'quainted  wid  er  lady  dat  mighty 
nigh  tuck  my  bref.  You  may  think  dat  er  little 
mouf  black  bass  an'  one  deze  yer  speckeled  pearches 
is  putty,  but  da'd  no  mo'  com  par  wid  dat  piece  o' 
human  flesh  den  er  inud  turkle  would  show  up  wid 
er  pea  fowl.  Soon  ez  I  seed  her,  does  you  know 
whut  I  done?  I  drapped  right  inter  pure  love. 
My  ole  wife  had  dun  been  run  er  way  wid  dat 
yaller  barber  mo'n  er  year,  an'  I  knowed  dat  I  wuz 
fitten  ter  marry,  'cordin'  ter  de  church  an'  'spect- 
able  s'ciety,  so  I  put  out  arter  de  lady,  I  did.  I 
went  ter  see  her  er  good  many  times;  I  tuck  her 
boss  apples  tied  up  in  er  red  hankerchuck;  I 
yered  dat  she  smoked,  an'  I  fotch  her  some  yaller 
leaf  terbacker  dat  I  raised  myse'f;  I  made  mer- 


SHELLING   PEASE.  73 

lasses  candy  fur  her;  I  eben  went  so  fur  ez  ter 
steal  er  chiekin  an'  fry  it  an'  take  it  ter  her;  an' 
now  I  wan  ter  ax  you  ef  er  pusson  could  do  much 
mo'  den  all  dis  ?  She  could  see  by  all  deze  yere 
'tentions  dat  I  wuz  ready  an'  er  waitin'  ter  lay  down 
my  life  fur  her.  But  did  she  smile  at  me  in  re 
turn  fur  all  dis  ?  Did  she  take  holt  o'  my  han'  like 
she  oughter  done,  an'  say,  *  Simon,  lead  de  way  an' 
I'll  foller  you  through  dis  yere  life.'  Did  she  do 
dat?  No,  sah,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  she  done. 
Wen  I  called  at  de  house  de  las'  time  she  wuz  set- 
tin'  in  de  do'  shellin'  pease.  Sez  I,  '  Howdy  do, 
ma'm,'  an'  I  set  down  on  de  step  an'  tuck  up  er 
pea  hull  and  gunter  look  at  it  like  dar  wuz  suthin' 
cu'is  er  bout  it.  She  says: 

"  '  Good  mawnin',  sah.' 

"  '  'Taint  quite  ez  dry  ez  it  was  er  few  days  er 
go,'  says  I. 

" '  No,  an'  it  ain't  quite  ez  wet  ez  it  wuz  while 
it  wuz  rainin'.' 

"  She  sorter  cut  her  eye  up  at  me  an'  I  smiled, 
but  she  shut  off  de  light  dat  fell  on  me  by  lookin' 
some  whar  else. 

"  'Whut's  de  reason  I  didn't  see  you  at  church 
yeste'd'y?'  I  asked. 

"  '  I  reckon  it  wuz  becaze  I  didn't  go.' 

"  She  flung  some  more  light  on  me  and  went  on 
shellin'  pease. 


74  SHELLING    PEASE. 

" '  Bruder  Jasper  'lowed  dat  he  missed  you 
might'ly,'  I  'lowed. 

"'Who,  dat  ole  fool?' 

"  'An'  I  missed  you  might'ly,  too.* 

"'Who,  you?'  She  stobbed  me  wid  er  dirk  o' 
light  on'  kep'  on  er  shellin'. 

"  '  Yas,'  says  I,  '  an'  ef  I  wuz  ter  be  snatched  frum 
dis  worl'  an'  tuck  ter  heaben  an'  didn'  find  you  dar 
I'd  be  so  diserpinted  dat  I'd  say  '  take  me  'way 
frum  yere.' ' 

"  '  Indeed,'  she  said,  an'  she  sorter  wrinkled  her 
nose,  but  she  didn't  look  at  me  er  tall. 

" '  Tas,  honey,  an'  I'd  not  only  tell  'em  to  take 
me  er  way,  but  ef  da  didn'  do  it  I'd  jump  out'n 
dar  like  er  steer.' 

"  'Who  you  callin'  honey?'  she  axed. 

"  *  Who's  yere  wid  me  ? ' 

"'I  is!' 

"  '  Den  I'se  callin'  you  honey.' 

"  '  Fool,'  she  says. 

"  '  Who's  you  callin'  fool?' 

"  '  Who's  yere  wid  me? ' 

"  '  I  is,'  says  I. 

"  'Den  I'se  callin'  you  fool.' 

"  'Fool  is  er  mighty  po'  swap  fur  honey,"  says  I. 

'"I  doan  know  'bout  dat,  but  I  knows  dis:  dat 
ef  I  had  er  yeller  dog  dat  wuz  flea-bit,  an*  had  de 
mange,  I  wouldn't  swap  him  fur  you,' 


SHELLING   PEASE.  75 

"'Miss,'  says  I,  gittin'  up  off  en  de  step,  'dar 
ain't  nobody  dat  likes  de  flowers  and  runnin'  vines 
o'  speech  better  den  I  does,  but  I  wanter  tell  you 
dat  you'se  gittin'  sorter  pussonal;  but  hole  on — 
doan  go  inter  argyment  on  dis  p'int,  fur  I  wanter 
state  er  case  ter  yer.  Naw  lissun  ter  me:  I'se 
got  about  ten  hogs — one  o'  'em  ain't  right  well, 
but  he'll  git  all  right — an'  two  cows  an'  er  hoss, 
'sides  er  whole  lot  o'  stuff  in  the  house.  Naw  I 
offers  dis  ter  you  wid  de  undyin'  love  o'  er  man 
dat  kin  stan'  flat-footed  an'  shoulder  fo'  bushels 
of  wheat.  Tou'se  y eared  er  ca'f  lowin'  arter  his 
mammy.  Dat  ain't  nuttin'  ter  de  way  my  heart 
lows  arter  you.  I  want  you,  honey;  I  want  you, 
an'  I  wan't  you  right  now.' 

"  I  waited  an'  waited  fur  her  ter  say  suthin',  but 
phe  kept  on  er  shellin'. 

"  '  An'  I  want  you  right  now,'  says  I.  '  I  mout 
look  ter  you  like  I'm  old;  but,  honey,  I'se  only  ole 
in  de  wisdom  o'  de  world.  I'se  been  er  'round, 
honey.  I  used  ter  be  er  deck  han'  on  er  steamboat, 
an'  I'se  been  up  ter  Cairo  an'  way  down  ter  Fryer's 
P'int;  an'  now  I  fetches  all  dis  wisdom  ter  you  an' 
tells  you  dat  I  wants  you,  an'  wants  you  right  now. 
What  mo'  kin  er  lady  ax  den  dis?  Kin  she  lissen 
an'  harken  ter  de  chatter  o'  deze  yere  young  bucks 
arter  all  dis  ?  Now,  whut  does  you  say  ?  ' 

"She  looked  at  me,  she  did,  an'  says:  'You  say 


76  SHELLING    PEASE. 

you  ain't  ole,  but  I  bet  you  kain't  jump  dat  fence 
dar.' 

"  '  I'll  bet  I  kin,'  says  I. 

M '  Den  I'll  bet  you  dat  you  kain't  stay  on  de 
«uider  side.' 

"  I  looked  at  her — I  looked  at  her  hard  dis  time, 
an'  I  says,  '  Lady,  you'se  boxin'  me  fust  one  side 
an'  den  de  udder  gest  fur  yo'  own  pleasure.  I'se 
too  proud  er  man  ter  stand  dat;  I'se  traveled  too 
much  ter  stand  it;  an'  now  I'se  gwine  stan'  right 
yere  an'  ax  you  ef  you  gwiue  be  my  wife.' 

"  '  Ole  man,'  say  she,  but  she  didn't  turn  de  light 
on  me — she  give  me  cold  darkness  —  '  ole  man, 
hobble  er  long  now.  I  ain't  got  no  crutches  fur 
you,  so  hobble  er  long  while  you'se  able.  Wen  I 
wants  ter  marry  sich  er  man  ez  you,  I'll  go  ober 
yander  ter  de  guberment  hospital  an'  pick  him  out.' 

"  Den  I  come  er  way.  Laws  er  massy,  de  misery 
I  did  see  night  after  night!  Ever'  time  I'd  shut 
my  eyes  dar  wuz  dat  lady,  shellin'  pease.  I  prayed 
ter  de  Lawd  ter  send  me  de  angel  o'  peace,  an'  I 
drapped  off  ter  sleep,  an'  yere  come  de  angel.  She 
had  er  long  silver  cloak  on,  an'  er  gold  veil;  an' 
jest  ez  I  drapped  on  my  knees  ter  thank  her  fur  de 
peace  she  had  fetch  me,  she  tuck  er  pan  full  o' 
pease  out  frum  under  her  silver  cloak,  an'  she 
lifted  her  golden  veil,  an'  I  seed  de  cruil  lady  dat  I 
loved. 


SHELLING   PEASE.  77 

"  At  last  I  found  dat  if  I  didn't  take  my  mind 
off  en  dat  subject  I'd  go  crazy,  an'  darfo'  I  come 
down  yere  and  flung  er  dollar  in  de  river." 

"  But  how  will  that  aid  you  to  take  your  mind 
off  the  subject?" 

"  Oh  Lawd,  you'se  got  er  heap  ter  1'arn  an'  er 
'mighty  heap  o'  traveling  to  do.  How  is  it  gwine 
take  my  mine  offen  de  subject?  Dis  way:  I'll  go 
away  from  yere  thinkin'  o'  whut  er  fool  I  wuz  ter 
fling  er  way  dat  dollar  w'en  I  needed  it  so  much; 
an'  all  de  time  I'se  thinkin'  'bout  de  dollar,  my 
mine  will  be  at  test  consarnin'  de  lady  settin'  in  de 
do'  shellin'  pease." 


A  TOTJNG  MAN'S  ADVICE, 


THE  editor  of  the  Weekly  Household  Comfort  was 
sitting  in  his  office  looking  over  a  pink  sketch  en 
titled  "  How  to  Make  Home  a  Paradise  of  Love," 
presumably  written  by  a  maiden  lady,  when  the 
footsteps  of  quick  impulse  were  heard  in,  the  hall 
way.  A  thump,  with  uncalculated  force,  resounded 
from  the  door,  and  when  the  editor  cried  "Come  in," 
there  entered  a  tall,  muscular  young  man. 

"  Is  this  Buben  J.  StibbensF  "  the  visitor  asked. 

"  The  same  sir,  and  I  am  at  your  service.  Sit 
down." 

"I  hope  you  are/'  said  the  visitor,  as  he  seated 
himself.  He  remained  silent  for  a  feiir  moments 
and  then,  giving  his  hat  a  sort  of  determined  shove 
back,  remarked: 

"  I  have  been  rdadihg  your  paper  for  some 
time." 

"Yes,"  the  editor  interrupted  with  a  "property" 
smile. 

"  I  first  took  it  up  about  a  year  ago,"  the  visitor 
went  on,  "and  at  once  became  interested  in  your 
advice  to  young  men.  You  said  that  ft  yoting  man 


80  A  IOUNQ  MAN'S  ADTICE. 

with  an  income  of  $20  a  week  could  not  only  afford 
to  get  married,  but  that  if  anything  he  could  live 
cheaper  and,  therefore,  save  more  money  than  ever 
before." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  was  visiting  a  young  lady  at  that  time  and 
decided  that  I  was  in  love  with  her.  I  believed 
that  she  would  make  me  a  good  wife,  but  had  been 
holding  off  through  fear  that  I  could  not  afford  to 
marry;  but  you  pictured  it  so  attractively  aud 
figured  it  out  with  such  encouragement  that  I  knew 
that  I  couldn't  make  a  mistake  by  following  your 
advice.  I  was  boarding  at  a  very  nice  place,  where 
there  was  a  gay  company  and  much  entertaining 
talk,  and  when  we  all  assembled  at  table,  I  fancied, 
and  not  without  cause,  that  I  was  the  king  bee  of 
the  hive.  And  I  pictured  to  myself  the  man  I'd 
become  when  I  should  sit  at  my  own  table." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  editor. 

"  But,"  the  visitor  continued,  "  I  held  off  through 
fear  that  I  might  possibly  make  a  mistake.  I  was 
so  free  that  I  couldn't  exactly  see  how  I  coul(J 
better  myself,  but  I  knew  that  you,  as  a  man  of  ex- 
perience,  must  surely  be  right  T  laid  the  mattet 
before  my  girl  and  she  laughed  at  my  questioning 
the  result.  She  had  been  doubtful  at  first,  she  said, 
but  your  paper  had  tipped  with  gold  the  sharp 
born  of  every  fear.  Those  were  her  very 


A  YotiNa  MAN'S  ADVICE.  81 

Sh«  reads  a  good  many  flimsy  books.  *  We  can 
just  live  the  nicest  you  ever  saw,'  she  said.  'We 
will  rent  a  furnished  flat  and — oh,  won't  that  be 
charming?'  and  that's  the  way  she  went  on.  I 
think  she  had  a  notion  of  going  on  the  stage  at  one 
time." 

The  editor  said  "  yes,"  and  the  young  man,  after 
a  short  silence,  thus  went  on : 

*'  I  held  off  a  little  while  longer,  but  here  came 
another  copy  of  your  paper  and  with  a  strong  array 
of  facts  settled  the  matter.  Well,  we  were  married. 
We  rented  a  furnished  flat  and  then  our  trouble  be 
gan.  Our  friends  fell  away  from  us,  and  when  I 
took  my  wife  to  visit  my  companions  at  the  board 
ing  house — I  waived  aside  all  formality  and  took 
her  there — I  soon  discovered  that  I  had  lost  caste ; 
but  I  loved  my  wife  and  looked  with  contempt  upon 
the  littleness  of  my  former  associates.  One  evening 
I  didn't  go  home  until  rather  late,  and  my  wife 
complained  about  it.  She  shed  tears  and  I  thought 
with  a  pang  of  the  freedom  I  had  lost.  I  would 
take  my  salary  home  every  Saturday  night  and  give 
it  to  my  wife,  which  was  right  enough  as  she  was 
of  a  more  saving  nature  than  myself.  One 
Saturday  evening  I  went  home  after  having  met 
several  old  time  friends  from  my  boyhood  town. 
When  I  handed  over  my  money  my  wife  counted  it, 
and  then,  looking  hard  at  me,  said:  * 


82  A  YOUNG  MAN'S  ADVICE. 

explained  that  I  had  met  several  old  friends.  'But 
I  don't  meet  any,'  she  replied.  Then  she  cried,  and 
I  thought  of  my  former  ownership  of  mr  own 
money  and  silently  cursed  myself." 

<:I  am  sorry,"  said  the  editor. 

The  visitor  grunted  and  then  continued:  "Well, 
it  has  just  been  a  year  since  I  married  and  what  do 
I  find  ?  I  find  that  my  expenses  are  nearly  twice  as 
heavy  as  they  were — I  find  that  I  must  either  bend 
to  the  whims  of  a  woman  or  bear  the  appearance  of 
a  brute." 

"  I  regret  very  much  that  you  should  have  been 
disappointed,"  said  the  editor,  "but  you  should 
console  yourself  with  the  time  honored  thought  that 
it  might  have  been  worse." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  visitor,  "  I  might  have  mar 
ried  sooner;  but  I  have  come  here  not  to  be  told 
that  matters  might  have  been  worse,  but  to  ask  your 
candid  advice.  You  were  the  cause  of  my  marriage, 
and  now  let  your  mind  work  for  a  few  moments  in 
my  behalf;  but  first  view  the  difficulties  of  the 
situation.  If  I  surrender  completely  my  wife  will 
forever  rule  me;  if  I  insist  upon  being  master  I 
shall  be  set  down  as  a  tyrant.  What  would  you 
do?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  editor,  after  a  few  moments'  re 
flection,  "  I  should  think  that  some  appeasing 
medium  could  be  struck.  Get  up  a  sort  of  treaty, 
as  it  were." 


"  Now  look  here,"  the  visitor  said,  Bather  nharply, 
"you  ought  to  know  that  a  woman  don't  keep  a 
treaty.  When  it  comes  to  a  matter  of  treaty  she  is 
a  barbaric  nation." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  don't  know  what  to  advise." 

"  But  what  did  you  do?  You  surely  had  to  solve 
certain  household  problems  after  you  married. 
Give  me  your  experience." 

"My  dear  sir,"'  r,  the  editor,  smiling,  "I  would 
willingly  give  you  my  experience  as  to  the  regula 
tion  of  married  life,  but  the  truth  is,  I  am  not  a 
married  man." 

"  What  I"  exclaimed  the  visitor,  springing  to  his 
feet,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  me " 

"  I  mean  to  tell  you,"  the  editor  broke  in,  "  that 
I  never  married," 

"Would  you  rather  take  off  your  coat?"  the 
young  married  man  asked  in  a  strangely  soft 
voice. 

"  Take  off  my  coat  I     What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  lick  you  and  that  I 
will  give  you  the  privilege  of  removing  ouperfluous 
garments/'  The  visitor  took  off  his  coat  and  stood 
waiting  for  the  editor*  "Come,  hurry  up.  I 
haven't  time  to  mit  on  yon.  I've  got  to  get  home 
in  time  to  keep  from  being  taten  to  task.  Get  up 
here." 

dea?  sir/'  e*sGs4sOsi*d  ibe  editor,  getting 


84  A  YOUNG  MAN'S  ADYIOE. 

up  and  stepping  back,  "  you  are  a  most  peculiar 
man.  That  advice  was  not  written  especially  for 
you." 

"  But  it  caught  me  especially.  Come  here!" 
He  reached  after  the  editor  and  caught  him,  too. 
He  caught  him  with  a  hip  hold  and  slammed  him 
on  the  unsympathetic  floor.  He  took  hold  of  the 
editor's  convenient  ears  and  bumped  his  head, 
bumped  it  until  some  one  on  the  floor  below  yelled, 
"  Here,  here,  let  up  with  that  bowling  alley  busi 
ness."  He  pulled  a  wisp  of  hair  out  of  the  editor's 
head,  the  very  wisp  that,  brushed  carefully  back, 
had  served  to  hide  a  bald  spot;  he  choked  him  to 
apparent  insensibility,  and  after  pouring  a  quart  of 
violet  ink  over  his  well-done  work,  took  his  depart 
ure. 

The  latest  number  of  Household  Comfort  does  not 
tell  how  two  people  can  live  more  cheaply  than  one, 
but  in  it  there  is  an  article  entitled  "Marriage 
Sorter  Shaky  if  Not  a  Complete  Failure." 


THE  PBOFESSOB. 


SOME  men  acquire  titles,  but  the  professor's  title 
was  thrust  upon  him.  Nor  did  he  object  In  truth 
it  was  an  unpropitious  day  when  he  objected  to  any 
thing.  About  all  he  seemed  to  care  for  was  to  sit 
in  the  saloon  and  play  the  piano  for  the  drinks  that 
bar-room  courtesy  shoved  his  way.  The  professor 
was  getting  along  in  years ;  he  had  no  family.  He 
had  no  ambition,  and  I  don't  know  but  that  it  was 
well  for  him  that  he  hadn't,  for  ambition  in  the 
breast  of  the  weak  is  a  sore  rankler.  The  professor's 
master  performance  was  of  a  piece  called  the  "Battle 
of  Gettysburg."  Jim,  the  big  bartender,  wouldn't 
let  him  play  it  except  on  Saturday  evenings.  Jim 
knew  that  the  children  of  genius  are  cheapened  by 
frequent  parade,  and  so  he  kept  the  "  battle"  for  the 
week's  banner  night. 

One  day  a  distressing  accident  befell  the  professor. 
He  was  caught  some  way — of  course  he  didn't  choose 
iiow — in  a  swinging  bridge  and  both  hands  were 
mashed  into  a  sickening  pulp.  They  took  him  to  a 
hospital  and  when  the  surgeons  got  through  with 

85 


86  THE  PROFESSOR. 

him  it  was  plain  that  his  professorship  was  about 
over.  This  was  a  worry  which  from  the  first  moment 
of  the  accident  had  lain  on  his  mind.  The  next  day 
he  sent  for  the  hospital  physician  and  said  to  him : 

"  Say,  doc,  of  course  I  don't  know  how  badly  I'm 
whittled  up,  only  I'm  willing  to  bet  it's  bad  enough, 
and  I'd  like  for  you  to  tell  me  if  you  think  my  use 
fulness  in  life  is  knocked  out." 

"  What  is  your  business?" 

"  Business!  My  dear  sir,  I  have  never  been  com 
pelled  to  make  my  living  in  trade." 

"Well,  what  do  you  do?" 

"  I'm  a  professor  of  music  in  the  Hole  in  Ground 
conservatory — in  other  words,  I  play  a  piano  in  a 
saloon." 

"Well,"  said  the  physician,  looking  at  him  com 
passionately,  "  you  have  one  finger  on  the  right  hand 
and  two  on  the  left." 

"  Good-bye  then  to  my  sovereignty,"  said  the  pro 
fessor. 

"  It's  bad,  but  can't  you  make  a  living  some  other 
way — by  teaching  music?" 

"No,  I  couldn't  teach  music;  don't  know  anything 
about  it  as  a  science  or  an  art.  I  picked  it  up  by  acci 
dent  ;  I  found  it  as  a  sort  of  '  sleeper ',  and  I  saw  that 
I  could  get  drinks  with  it." 

"But  I  should  think  that  you  could  earn  your 
living  some  Low.  You  appear  to  be  a  man  of  edu 
cation." 


THE  PROFESSOR.  87 

"  Why,  don't  you  know,"  said  the  prof  essor,  "that 
in  the  majority  of  cases  it's  the  educated  man  who 
finds  it  hardest  to  make  an  honest  living ;  the  man 
who  has  a  trained  mind — say,  I'm  a  trifle  too  sober ; 
soberer  than  I've  been  for  years,  and  I  want  you  to 
help  me  out  of  it.  Now,  here,  don't  preach  any 
moral  doctrine  to  me.  There  are  no  seeds  of  reform 
ation  in  me.  All  I  want  is  enough  whiskey  to  dull 
certain  sharp  places.  Now,  look  here;  I  see  that 
you're  going  to  preacn  to  me ;  you're  going  to  tell 
me  about  the  duty  I  owe  to  myself  and  my  friends. 
And  just  let  me  hold  you  off  by  saying  that  I  don't 
owe  myself  any  duty,  and  I  recognize  nothing  as 
friendship  except  '  take  something  with  me !' 
Depraved !  Of  course.  What  do  yoti  expect  of  a 
man  who  plays  a  piano  in  a  saloon?  Sprigs  of 
morality?  Hah?" 

The  doctor  brought  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  gave 
it  to  the  professor. 

"You've  hit  it  now.  Just  hold  it  up,  please. 
Thank  you,"  he  said,  when  the  doctor  took  the  glass 
away. 

"  You  must  have  a  history,"  the  physician  re 
marked. 

"I  have — Hume's,  in  six  volumes." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  a  personal  history." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,  but  I  may  have," 

"  Where  were  you  born  ?  " 


88  THE   PRCFESSOB. 

"  Either  in  this  country  or  some  other,  I'm  quite 
sure." 

"  What  is  your  name?  " 

"  The  professor." 

"I'd  like  very  much  to  know  something  about 
you." 

"  Yes  ?  Well,  it  wouldn't  do  you  any  good.  Say, 
did  it  ever  strike  you  that  old  drunkards  take  a 
mournful  delight  in  parading  their  depravity  and 
the  opportunities  they  have  losj?  A  man  is  often 
contented  with  his  misery  and  proud  of  his  disgrace. 
P  -obably  I  could  tell  you  a  long  story  of  a  false 
wite  ai*d  a  ruined  home ;  probably  I  could  tell  you 
of  a  defalcation  and  a  midnight  flight  from  a  quiet 
New  England  village.  But  I  won't  And  why? 
Because  such  things  don't  concern  my  case  in  the 
least.  Did  I  drink  all  that  liquor  when  you  tilted 
that  glass?  I  did?  Well,  it's  time  for  more,  isn't 
it  ?  No  ?  Say,  you  people  that  give  a  man  a  swig 
of  whiskey  and  tell  him  he's  got  enough  put  your 
selves  in  contempt  of  court.  Why  should  you  pre 
sume  to  tell  a  man  that  he's  got  enough?  You  may 
tell  me  that  you  won't  give  me  any  more,  and  you 
may  call  me  most  any  sort  of  name,  for  that  is  a  priv 
ilege  that  I  grant  any  man;  but  don't  tell  me  that 
I've  got  enough  when  every  fiber  of  my  body  tells 
me  that  I  haven't." 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  that  you've  had  enough." 


THE   PBOFES80B.  89 

"Didn't  you?  Look  here,  I  am  discovering  som* 
very  gentlemanly  traits  in  you;  and  if  I  weren't  in 
this  fix  I'd  shake  hands  with  you.  But  what  about 
the  whiskey?" 

"  You  can't  have  any  more  at  present'" 

"There,  you  fell  down.  'Tis  thus  throughout  life: 
A  man  wins  our  confidence  and  then  wilfully  throws 
it  away." 

The  professor  took  an  exceeding  thirst  with  him 
when  he  went  back  to  the  saloon,  and  during  a  week 
the  whiskey  was  almost  of  incessant  flow,  but  after 
awhile  big  Jim  called  the  professor  aside  and  thus 
spoke  to  him : 

"  Say,  professor,  you  know  we  all  like  you  and  all 
that  sort  oJ2  thing,  but  you  know  things  have  sorter 
changed.  You  used  to  earn  your  liquor  by  piano 
playing  but  you  can' t  play  any  more  and  some  of 
the  customers  are  kicking  about  your  setting  around 
here  always  watching  for  a  drink.  Of  course  I 
don't  wan't  to  hurt  your  feelin's,  but  I've  got  to 
stand  by  the  customers  or  this  thing  will  go  by 
the  board,  you  know;  so  I'd  rathor  you'd  stay  away 
from  here,  professor.  No  harm,  sure,  understand, 
and  recollect  I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings  for  any 
thing,  but  it's  got  to  be  this  way.  Now,  if  you  could 
do  something  to  entertain  the  customers  of  course 
you  could  have  drinks  and  lunch,  but — " 

"Oh,  I  can  entertain  them,"  said  the  professor. 
"  I  can  dance." 


90  THE   PROFISSOB. 

"  But  that  won't  be  much  of  an  entertainment." 

"  What!  Now,  Jimmy,  don't  you  go  round  here 
showing  your  ignorance.  Why,  don't  you  know 
that  dancing  is  about  to  drive  piano  playing  out  of 
society?  You  go  to  the  biggest  piano  house  in 
town  and  they'll  tell  you  that  their  sales  have 
dropped  off  at  least  fifty  per  cent,  in  the  last  six 
months; -and  you  go  to  a  leading  shoe  store  and  ask 
them  how  dancing  shoes  are  going.  Don't  prove 
your  unfitness  fnr  your  position,  Jimmy,  by  making 
such  breaks  as  that." 

"  All  right,  professor;  I'll  give  it  out  that  you  are 
to  dance  after  this." 

And  he  did  dance ;  not  so  well  as  some  people  have 
danced  in  the  past  and  not  as  well  as  some  people 
are  likely  to  dance  in  the  future,  but  he  danced 
back  some  of  his  lost  popularity.  So  old  a  man 
capering  for  the  amusement  of  a  crowd  was  gro 
tesque,  but  grotesque  catches  the  rabble,  and  in  a 
saloon  old  age  itself  becomes  ridiculous. 

Another  accident  befell  the  professor.  A  street 
car  mashed  Ms  foot.  After  a  time  he  limped  back 
to  the  saloon  and  the  "boys"  greeted  him  with  a 
shout  and  gave  him  whiskey,  but  after  a  day  or 
two  Jim  came  to  him  and  said: 

"  They  are  complainin,  again,  professor." 

"  They  don't  waat  me,  eh?" 

"  That's  it" 


THE   PBOFESSOB.  91 

"  I'll  entertain  them  with  stories." 

"  They've  heard  all  your  chestnuts." 

"  I'll  sing  for  them." 

"  Oh,  Lord." 

"  What!  don't  you  think  I  can  sing?" 

"  I  know  you  can't." 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Jimmy,  I  reckon  I  am  a 
little  short  on  singing.  And  I've  got  to  go,  eh?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You've  got  everything  out  of  me ;  you've  squeezed 
me  dry  and  now  you're  going  to  throw  me  out.  But 
that's  the  way  with  you  saloon  fellows;  and  I  act 
ually  believe  that  if  the  best  fellow  in  the  world 
should  keep  a  saloon  a  few  years  he  would  put  out 
his  father  after  he  ceased  to  be  a  source  of  revenue. 
I  don't  know  where  I'll  hang  out,  but  of  course  that 
doesn't  make  any  difference." 

He  limped  away  and  more  than  a  week  passed  be 
fore  he  was  seen  again  in  the  saloon.  Then  he  came 
in  when  Charley,  the  other  bartender,  was  on  watch. 

"  How  are  you,  Charley?" 

"  Hello,  professor,  take  something  ?" 

"Will  I?     Just  watch  me.     Fill  it  clear  np." 

"  Say,"  said  Charley,  when  the  professor  had 
taken  his  drink,  "you'd  better  get  away  before  Jim 
comes  on.  He'll  bounce  you." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  but  I've  got  to  lie  down  a  minute. 
I  feel  all  burnt  out.  I'll  go  back  here  and  lie  down, 
but  I'll  git  out  before  Jim  comes  on." 


92  THE   PROFESSOR. 

"  Fd  rather  you  wouldn't,  professor." 
.  "Oh,  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes." 

He  lay  down  and  Charley  took  all  the  bottles  and 
put  them  on  the  bar  and  began  to  clean  up.  He 
put  the  bottles  back  and  began  to  wait  on  early 
customers,  and  he  forgot  the  professor.  After  awhile 
Jim  came  in,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  the  pro 
fessor  lying  back  there. 

"  You'll  have  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  said,  walking 
back.  "I  say,  professor,"  Couching  him  with  his 
toe.  "Heigh,  here,  professor."  And  suddenly  Jim 
sprang  back  with  horror  in  his  face. 

"  Charley,"  he  said,  "call  a  patrol  wagon." 

Yes,  the  professor  wa.3  all  right  in  a  few  minutes. 


OLD  BROTHERS. 


OLD  BLIND  BOB  is  a  well-known  figure  in  the 
streets  of  Chicago.  He  came  to  this  city  years  ago, 
having  run  away  from  his  Kentucky  home  of  bond 
age.  He  had  fought  dogs,  he  said,  on  an  island  in 
the  Ohio  river,  and  he  used  to  bare  his  arms  and 
show  the  children  where  the  fierce  animals  had  torn 
his  flesh.  He  was  ever  known  as  a  kind-hearted 
man,  and  when  a  dangerous  duty  presented  itself  he 
faced  it  with  cheerful  fearlessness.  One  night  an 
old  tenement  house  on  Lake  street  caught  fire  and 
when  the  flames  shot  high  in  the  air,  the  cry  was 
raised  tbat  a  crippled  man  had  been  left  in  an  upper 
front  room.  Bob  did  not  wait  a  moment  after  hear 
ing  the  cry;  he  hounded  up  the  burning  stairway 
and  brought  the  crippled  man  down  wfth  him,  but 
left  his  eyesight  behind.  For  a  time  he  was  a  hero. 
The  newspapers  "  wrote  him  up  "  and  people  flocked 
to  see  him  as  he  lay  in  his  room.  A  subscription 
was  opened  and  a  sum  of  money,  not  large  but 
promising  to  be  larger,  was  raised  for  him,  but 
apathy,  the  sure  follower  of  enthusiasm,  soon  came 

98 


94  OLD   BROTHERS. 

and  Bob  was  no  longer  a  hero,  but  an  unfortunate 
negro  that  lost  his  eyesight  in  a  fire. 

The  old  man,  led  about  by  a  large  brindle  dog, 
lived  on  charity.  JTis  voice,  with  mendicity's  earli 
est  trick,  became  peculiarly  soft  and  persuasive,  and 
it  was  declared  that  the  dog  had  cultivated  the 
knack  of  throwing  tender  appeal  into  his  anxious 
look. 

The  growth  of  the  city  gradually  drove  the  old 
man  southward,  Young  men  remember  when  he 
lived  on  Madison  street  in  a  closet  under  a  stairway, 
and  the  newsboys  have  seen  him  move  three 
times  within  the  past  three  years  and  now  his 
wretched  lodging  place  is  in  a  cellar  just  off  Van 
Buren  street. 

I  have  l.vlked  many  times  with  the  old  man. 
Indeed  I  held  a  strong  interest  for  him,  not  that  I 
could  say  anything  that  might  tend  to  brighten  his 
future,  but  that  I  held  in  common  with  him  a  cer 
tain  memory  of  the  past — I  had  lived  near  his  old 
home  in  Kentucky. 

"  Ef  I  could  git  my  eyes  back'  ergin,"  he  onoe 
remarked,  "  does  you  know  what  I'd  do  ?  Hah,  does 
you  know?  Doan  reckon  you  does.  You  reckona 
dat  I'd  stomp  round  yere  an'  look  at  deze  yer  high 
houses  dat  I  yere  folks  talk  so  much  erbout,  but  I 
lay  I  wouldn't.  I'd  go  right  off  down  yander  in 
JLaintucky  an'  look  at  dat  spring  branch  whar  I  used 


OLD   BEOTHEBS.  95 

ter  wade.  Eecolleck  dat  big  oak  tree  whar  da 
Mount  Hope  road  crossed  de  Bardstown  pike? 
Wall,  eah,  right  under  dat  tree  I  killed  de  bigges' 
black  snake  one  day  I  eber  peed  in  my  life;  an'  de 
trifliu'  raskil  fit  me,  too,  he  did.  Taller  Tony  wuz 
wid  me  an'  bless  yo'  life  how  dat  boy  did  run;  an' 
I  tuck  de  snake  and  hung  him  on  de  fence  ter  make 
it  rain,  an'  now  you  neenter  laugh  but  it  did  make 
it  rain  sho's  you  bo'n.  Mars'  Wiley — dat  wuz  ola 
marster — he  'lowed  dat  it  did  make  it  rain,  but  he 
tole  me  not  ter  tell  de  uder  white  folks  dat  hebleved 
it  caze  da'd  laugh  at  him.  An'  you  say  Taller 
Tony  is  er  preacher  now?  Wall,  wall.  Sorter 
strange  dat  er  boy  dat  wuz  er  feerd  o'  er  snake 
would  turn  out  ter  be  er  man  ter  fight  Satan,  but 
den  I  reckon  ef  Eve  had  been  er  little  skeerder  o'  er 
enake  it  would  'a'  been  er  good  'eal  better  fur  us 
all." 

Several  days  ago,  late  in  the  afternoon,  I  was 
passing  Old  Bob's  cellar,  when  I  heard  him  talking 
louder  and  harsher  than  I  had  ever  known  him  to 
talk  before,  and  stepping  down  into  the  den  I  saw 
the  old  man  sitting  with  his  back  against  the  wall, 
frowning  upon  his  old  brindle  dog. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Uncle  Bob?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  is  dat  you?  Er  good  'eal  de  matter,  sah, 
Dis  ole  raskil  dun  lead  me  whar  I  almos'  cripple 
myse'f  ergin  er  pile  o'  bricks.  He's  gittin'  tired  o1 
me,  too,  de  ole  scoundul." 


96  OLD   BROTHERS. 

The  dog  whined  piteously. 

"  Oh,  you' s  sorry  now,  is  you  ?  You  ain't  ha'f  ez 
sorry  ez  I  is,  you  good  fur  nothin'  houn'.  Come  er 
lookin'  roun'  atter  udder  dogs  an'  let  me  breck  my 
ole  bones.  Git  away  from  me  " — the  dog  was  try 
ing  to  rub  his  head  against  him — "git  er  way,  caze 
I  doan  wanter  had  nuthin'  ter  do  wid  er  traitor. 
Oh,  you  mer  whine  but  I  ain't  neber  gwine  be  yo' 
frien'  no  mo'." 

The  dog  turned  toward  me.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  scene.  The  old  guide — the  safe  conduct  through 
BO  many  years — was  blind. 

"  Uncle  Bob,"  said  I,  "the  poor  old  dog  is  now 
in  closer  kindship  with  you — he  is  blind." 

The  old  man  sobbed,  and  feeling  about  him — feel 
ing  for  the  dog — said: 

"Come  yere,  my  po'  ole  frien'  an'  bruder;  come 
yere.  Dar  now,  doan  cry  an'  whine.  Did  you 
think  I  wuz  mad  at  you?  Bless  yo'  life,  I  wouldn't 
scold  you.  Dar,  dat's  it.  Lay  down,  now;  lay 
down." 


OLD  JOHN. 


THE  following  must  have  been  written  as  %  most 
secret  self-confession.  The  stress  of  much  impor 
tance  was  evidently  laid  upon  it,  judging  from  the 
care  with  which  it  was  hidden  away  under  a  rock. 
It  was  found  in  a  small  box,  and  was  wrapped  in  a 
piece  of  oil-skin.  I  would  not  so  rudely  drag  the 
writer's  secret  into  the  blistering  domain  of  print, 
were  it  not  that  a  moral — I  don't  exactly  know  what 
sort — trickles  down  among  its  words  like  a  rivulet 
from  a  dripping  spring. 

I  must  have  been  born  a  scoundrel  (thus  the 
confession  begins),  for  I  cannot  throw  my  recol 
lection  back  to  a  time  before  the  fly  oi  dishonesty 
had  laid  an  egg  in  my  soul.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
my  first  meditated  utterance  was  a  lie,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  my  first  noteworthy  per 
formance  was  a  theft.  How  I  kept  out  of  the  peni 
tentiary  when  I  had  grown  up,  is  a  mystery  to  me, 
as  I  now  look  back  upon  those  years  of  eager  ras 
cality,  but  I  did  keep  out,  and  more,  I  managed  to 
gain  the  confidence  of  many  people  who  thought 


87 


98  OLD  JOHN. 

themselves  world-wise.  How  complete  a  scoundrel 
a  man  may  be,  and  yet  hold  the  admiration  of  honest 
women.  In  talking  to  them  I  skirted  the  edge  of  a 
forbidden  ground,  and  they,  ever  fascinated  by  a 
glimpse  of  the  danger  line,  declared  me  witty  and 
wise,  and  voted  dullness  to  certain  honest  men,  who 
talked  with  good  intention.  I  did  not  marry  early ; 
I  did  not  find  a  rich  woman  who  happened  to  be  at 
matrimonial  leisure.  I  lived  along,  often  denounced 
by  men,  but  more  often  pitied  by  women.  I  must 
have  been  nearly  thirty  years  old  when  I  met  John 
Lagmuth.  I  was  fishing  in  a  small  Wisconsin  lake 
one  Saturday,  and  on  a  nervous  sudden  my  boat 
tipped  over,  and  into  the  lake  I  went.  The  water 
was  not  very  deep,  and  I  walked  ashore,  and  was 
standing  in  the  sunshine  to  dry,  when  I  saw  a  man 
coming  toward  me. 

(< Won't  you  have  a  nip?"  he  asked  as  he  came 
nearer. 

"  No,  I  believe  not,"  I  answered. 

"  You'd  better — you  might  take  cold.  Got  some 
pretty  fair  brandy  here." 

He  handed  me  a  flask  and  I  took  a  drink,  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance.  I 
didn't  think  so  much  of  him  at  first;  I  saw  at  once 
that  there  was  something  about  him  that  did  not, 
so  far  as  I  knew,  belong  to  any  other  man,  but  this 
did  not  give  me  special  concern.  There  was  noth- 


OLD   JOHN.  99 

ing  within  me  that  called  for  friendship ;  I  did  not 
feel  that  my  nature  could  agree  to  a  scheme  of 
reciprocity,  and  therefore  I  was  surprised  when  I 
fownd  that  I  was  really  attached  to  John  Lagmuth. 
And  then  a  peculiar  sadness  settled  upon  me ;  I  was 
depressed  by  the  thought  that  he  might  soon  dis 
cover  my  unworthiness  of  his  regard.  Never  before 
had  I  known  an  unrest  to  arise  from  such  a  cause. 
Once  I  had  been  half  way  in  love  with  a  slip  of  a 
pale  creature  who  had  drawn  about  her  thin  being 
the  catchy  drapery  of  a  romantic  air,  but  not  for  a 
moment  had  I  been  concerned  lest  she  might  dis 
cover  me  to  be  a  rascal. 

John  Lagmuth  liked  me.  I  could  see  that  and  I 
felt  a  strange  consolation  in  the  attention  which  he 
showed  me,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  be  so 
skillful  that  he  should  never  see  any  deeper  into 
my  nature  than  I  was  willing  that  he  should  look. 

One  day  he  came  to  me  said:  "Harvey,  let  us 
room  together."  And  then,  before  I  could  answer, 
he  added:  "You  look  surprised." 

"  Surprised  with  pleasure  if  at  all,"  I  replied. 

"Good!"  he  said,  with  loud  heartiness,  placing 
his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "And  why  do  I  say 
good?"  he  asked,  giving  me  more  sympathy  with 
his  eyes  than  the  words  of  any  one  else  had 
ever  conveyed.  "Because  I  like  you.  Harvey, 
in  these  days  of  cold-blooded  scoundrelism,  what 


100  OLD  JOHN. 

a  feeling  of  restful  security  comes  to  us  when 
we  meet  a  man  whose  voice  is  soft  with  the  music 
of  truth,  and  whose  heart  is  warm  with  hon 
esty.  Oh,  you  needn't  look  at  me  that  way,  Har 
vey.  I  am  a  shrewd  pryer  into  the  odd  corners  of 
human  nature,  and — there,  you  shouldn't  apologize 
for  being  trustworthy." 

I  had  interrupted  him,  but  really  I  didn't  know 
what  I  had  said.  It  must  have  been  a  sort  of  spon 
taneous  combustion  of  whatever  little  honesty  there 
was  in  my  heart,  but  John  Lagmuth  mistook  it  for 
a  protest  of  modesty. 

Well,  we  roomed  together.  He  introduced  me 
into  the  prim  and  exclusive,  yet  delightful  society 
of  old  books ;  he  open  hearted,  and  I  carefully  but 
toning  up  my  real  self.  And  sometimes  I  had  to 
laugh  when  I  thought  how  he  prided  himself  on  his 
judgment  of  men,  What  an  error  it  is  to  suppose 
that  one  can  actually  read  character.  You  cannot 
judge  of  the  size  of  the  loaf  by  the  crumbs  you  find 
under  the  table;  you  can  tell  if  the  bread  be  wheat 
or  rye,  but  that  is  about  as  far  as  you  can  go. 
We  may  be  modest  observers  of  action,  but  we  are 
egotistic  readers  of  motive. 

Thus  we  lived.  Once  I  had  a  deal  with  a  man 
and  I  could  have  skinned  him,  and  I  would  have 
taken  off  his  hide,  too,  hadn't  I  been  afraid  that 
John  might  find  it  out  Indeed,  I  neglected  many 


OLD  JOHN.  101 

opportunities  just  on  account  of  the  charming  old 
fellow  who  had  confidence  in  me.  I  took  a  keen 
pleasure  in  thus  deceiving  him,  and  I  did  not  stop 
at  being  simply  upright,  but  pushed  forward  into 
the  realm  of  speculation — that  is,  I  would  perform 
a  kind  act  and  wonder  what  John  would  think  if  he 
should  ever  learn  of  it.  People  began  to  talk  about 
me,  but  public  praise  was  not  sweet  enough  alone 
to  stimulate  me;  my  vanity  was  fed,  and  sometimes 
pampered  to  ecstasy,  by  old  John's  mellow  words. 
I  was  nominated  for  office,  and  when  the  electors 
came  to  receive  my  false  promises  I  drew  back  from 
making  avowals  that  I  could  not  fulfill.  What 
would  John  say  if  I  should  prove  to  be  a  political 
hypocrite?  I  made  no  promises,  but  was  elected. 

Now,  indeed,  had  I  a  chance  to  be  an  an  ideal  ras 
cal.  I  was  in  a  position  to  make  thousands  of  dol 
lars  and  run  no  risks  of  exposure,  but  I  was  afraid 
that  John  might  in  some  way  find  it  out  He  was 
my  victim,  and  I  could  not  endure  the  thought  of 
his  rising  above  me. 

The  years  went  by.  The  night  was  wild.  I  sat 
alone  with  John.  He  was  dying.  How  beautiful 
was  his  confidence  in  the  love  of  a  Savior ;  how  sub 
lime  was  his  resignation. 

"  Harvey,  they  say  I  can't  liv«  till  morning." 

"  Yes,"  I  sobbed. 

"It  is  well" 


102  OLD  JOHN. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  cried;  "  oh,  no;  it  is  not  well.  What 
is  to  become  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  to  follow,  with  love  in  your  soul." 

And  so  he  passed  away.  I  was  elected  to  a  higher 
position  of  trust,  and  my  opportunities  for  yielding 
to  instinct  were  greater  than  ever  before,  but  still  I 
was  afraid  that  old  John  might  find  it  out. 

I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  my  grandchildren  are 
about  me.  Society  honors  me,  but  I  care  naught 
for  that,  for  I  feel  that  I  deserve  it  not.  I  have  a 

hope — now  this  is  foolish but  I  have  a  hope  that 

old  John  has  spoken  well  of  me  away  over  yon 
der  where  the  souls  of  men  are  gathered. 


AN  OLD  WOMAN'S  DREAM. 


AN  old  negro  woman,  after  hanging  about  the  door 
of  a  lawyer's  office,  finally  found  courage  enough  to 
enter.  She  was  an  "  old-time  "  negress,  and  doubt 
less,  in  some  far  away  place,  a  prosperous  man 
turned  lovingly  to  her  memory — to  the  memory  of 
his  "black  mammy." 

"  What  do  you  want?"  the  lawyer  demanded. 

"Is  dis  Mr.  Wilson's  office?"  she  hesitatingly 
asked. 

"Yes,  what  can  I  do  for  you?  Quick;  I'm  as 
busy  as  a  bed-bug." 

"  Wall,  dem  things  is  busy  sho',  er  he  he,"  she 
laughed.  "  I  knows  whut  da  is,  caze  I  wuz  de 
chamber  lady  in  er  white  'oman's  bo'din'  house 
wunst  She  say,  she  did,  'Aunt  Ginny,  how  we  gwine 
git  shet  o'  deze  yere  torments?  Dat  fat  generman 
in  de  back  room  'low,  he  do,  dat  da  dun  chaw'd 
putty  nigh  all  de  hide  offen  him  an'  he  say  he  kain't 
spar  no  mo',  an'  I  reckin  he  meant  whut  he  said, 
fur  he  got  red  notts  all  on  the  back  o'  his  naik.' 
Dat's  what  de  white  'omau  she  'lowed,  an*  den  I 

103 


104  AN  OLD  WOMAN'S  DREAM. 

say,  *  Law  me,  dar's  ernuff  trouble  in  dis  yere  vrarT 
widout  folks  lettin'  da  mines  go  wandrin'  off  atter 
bed-bugs.  Tell  de  ganerman  to  fling  his  interlock 
down  on  de  salwation  o'  his  soul  an'  let  de  bugH 
take  da  own  cou'se.'  Dat's  'zackly  whut  I  'lowed 
ter  de  white  'oman." 

"  But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  business 
here,  old  woman." 

"  Oh,  I's  'war'  o'  dat,  sail,  but  you  fotoh  up  de 
subjeck,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  let  no  pusson  outdo  me 
when  de  eubjek  is  dun  fotch  up." 

"  Well  let  it  go.  Now  what  do  you  want  with 
me?" 

"  Yes,  sah,  I'd  a  dun  been  come  ter  dat  ef  you 
hadenter  switched  my  mine  off  on  dem  bugs,  fur  ef 
dar's  er  thing  in  dis  yere  county  dat  I  is  'quainted 
wid  an'  has  socyated  wid  it  is  or  bed-bug,  fur  ez  I 
dun  tole  you  I  wuz  de  chamber  lady  in  a  white 
'oman's  bo' din'  house.  I'se  comin'  right  down  ter 
de  merics  o'  de  case,"  she  quickly  added,  as  the 
lawyer  began  to  move  impatiently  in  his  chair. 
'*  I's  right  dar  now.  Now,  lemme  see,  how  mus'  I 
git  at  hit?  Oh,  yes,  now  I's  got  it,  which  is  dis:  I 
wanter  fetch  a  lawsuit." 

"  All  right;  state  your  case." 

"Yas,  dat's  what  I  'lows  ter  do.  I  wants  ter 
fetch  er  suit  ergin  Mr.  Jim  Barnes." 

"He's  the  sheriff.     Do  you  mean  him?" 

"Yas,  I  moans  him — plum  him." 


AN  OLD  WOMAN'S  DREAM.  10R 

"What  do  jou  want  to  sue  him  for?  Does  he 
«we  you  anything  ?  " 

"  Yas,  he  owes  me  all  I  had  an'  all  I  lubed  in  dis 
»MM  worl'' — he  hung  my  son  in  de  jail-yard  Dat 
ehile  ww;  all  de  suppo't  I  had  an  now  dat  Mr. 
Barnes  dun  killed  him,  w'y  I  think  he  oughter  do 
•m'thin'  fur  me  ez  I's  dun  too  ole  ter  work." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  my  poor  woman,"  said  the 
'.awyer,  with  more  compassion  than  he  had  doubtless 
air>wn  for  months,  "  but  you  have  no  cause  for 
action  against  Mr,  Barnes.  Your  son  was  con 
demned  by  the  State  and  it  was  Mr.  Barnes's  duty 
to  hang  him." 

"  But  kain't  I  dc  aothin'  ergin  de  State,  sah?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  But  whut  right  de  State  got  ter  come  snatch 
dat  boy  up  an'  hang  him,  when  da  mout  a-know'd 
he  wuz  all  I  had  ter  'pend  on?" 

"  The  State  takes  no  account  of  such  matters. 
Your  son  was  convicted  of  murder  and  that  settled 
it." 

41  But  he  wa'n't  guilty  o'  no  murder,  sah." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  know  caze  he  tole  me  so.  De  night  'fo'  he 
wuz  hung  de  naixt  day,  I  went  inter  de  jail  ter  see 
him,  an'  when  he  dun  put  his  arms  'round  me  I  say, 
'  Sweet  chile,  ef  I  ax  you  one  thing  you'll  tell  me  de 
truf,  won't  you? '  ' Mammy,'  says  he,  'did  you  eber 


106  AH  OLD  WOMAN'S  DREAM. 

know  me  ter  tell  you  er  lie  ? '  '  No,  sweet  chile,  1 
neber  did,  so  now  tell  yo'  po'  ole  mammy  ef  you  did 
kill  dat  man.'  He  tuck  his  arms  frum  'roun'  my 
naik  an'  put  his  han's  on  my  shoulders  an'  look  me 
in  de  eyes  jes'  like  he  useter  look  at  me  when  he  AVUZ 
er  little  chile  an'  says,  '  Mammy  I  didn*  kill  him.' 
'  I  b'leves  you,'  says  I,  '  de  Lawd  in  heaben  knows  I 
does,  but  de  law  an'  de  jedge  an'  all  de  white  folks 
dun  say  you  killed  him,  an'  how  is  one  po'  chile  like 
you  gwine  hoi'  out  ergiu  all  de  whole  'munity ? '  'I 
kain't  hoi'  out  ergin  'em,  mammy,'  says  he,  'an'  it 
ain't  no  use  ter  try,  for  all  I  kin  do  is  ter  ax  de 
Lawd  fur  His  heabenly  mussy  an'  den  let  de  law 
take  its  cou'se.'  De  law  did  take  its  cou'se  an'  my 
chile  died,  da  tells  me,  like  er  man.  I  doan  know 
what  da  calls  dyin'  like  er  man,  but  I  does  know  dat 
no  matter  how  dat  boy  died,  he  died  like  er  innercent 
pusson." 

"I  remember  the  brave  bearing  of  your  boy," 
said  the  lawyer.  "  I  was  appointed  by  the  court  to 
defend  him  and  I  did  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability; 
but  why  do  you  come  at  this  late  day  and  ask  relief  ? 
Your  son  was  hanged  nearly  a  year  ago." 

"I  knows  that,  sah,  knows  it  ez  well  ez  anybody, 
an'  has  been  a  b'ariu'  it  wid  Christian  forty tude,  but 
it  an  'pear  like  I  km  git  along  no  longer  widout 
h  '  o'  soino  sort  I  has  been  a-washin'  an'  er 
ecrubbin'  erround  de  neighborhood,  but  I  'clar'  ter 


AH  OLD  WOMAN'S  DREAM.  107 

goodness  I's  a-gittin'  so  old  an'  no  'count  dat  I  kain't 
do  nothin'  an'  ernudder  thing  dat  caused  me  ter 
come  wuz  dis  I  has  been  dreamin'  'bout  dat  boy  ever 
night  lately,  an'  allus  de  same  dreanu  I  f  v-Ught  I 
wuz  settin'  out  in  de  yard  er  kyaadin'  some  bats  fur 
er  quilt,  an'  all  o'  a  suddent  de  sky  got  re  '  den 
my  boy  he  stepped  outen  de  red  an'  come  right  up 
to  me,  he  did,  an'  smile,  he  did,  an'  say  dat  ic  wa'n't 
gwine  be  long  'fo'  de  white  folks  would  fine  out  dat 
he  neber  killed  dat  man.  He  been  :  comin*  ->/  r 
night  jes'  dat  way  fur  six  week,  an'  atter  he  hul  dnn 
come  ergin  las'  night  I  thought  I'd  see  you  an'  ax 
ef  suthin'  couldn't  be  done." 

"  I  don't  know  of  anything- — come  in,"  th  lawyer 
broke  off  as  someone  stepped  into  the  doorvny, 
"Hello,  colonel,"  he  added,  recognizing  til  v  tor. 

"  Haven't  but  a  minute  to  stay,"  said  the  c^  L 
"  Was  passing  and  thought  I  would  drop  in  an 
you  something  that  I  have  just  heard.  You  reinei  i  r 
that  negro  boy  that  you  defended  about  8  year  ego? 
Yes,  of  course  you  do.  Well,  an  iufamoos  old 
scoundrel  named  Foster  died  over  in  Calhoun  county 
yesterday,  and  just  before  dying  confessed  that  he 
had  committed  that  murder." 

"  Thank  God  fur  dat  'fession!"  exclaimed  the  old 
woman. 

"  This  woman,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  is  the  mother 
of  that  boy  and  is  in  need.  We  are  going  to  see 


108  AN  OLD  WOMAN'S  DREAM. 

what  can  be  done  for  her.    I  will  start  the  Bubscrip- 
tion  with  one  hundred  dollars.11 

"You  may  put  me  down,  for  another  hundred," 
the  colonel  declared,  "and  then  we'll  go  over  to  th.> 
court-house  and  make  the  judge  and  all  the  boys 
subscribe." 


INTERVIEWED  A  CORPSE 


LIBMAN,  the  theatrical  manager,  who  is  his  earlier 
life  had  played  death  so  unrealistically,  lay  on  his 
bed  approaching  an  earnest  performance  of  that 
role.  When  his  physician  told  him  that  bis  recovery 
was  hopeless,  he  remarked,  with  that  placidity  which 
has  sometimes  made  the  reputation  of  dying  men? 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  Lay  me  out  in  the 
greenroom,  where  all  the  boys  may  come  and  look 
at  me." 

His  directions  were  followed,  and  the  "  boys  " 
came  and  looked  at  him.  His  faults  were  buried 
and  his  long-darkened  virtues  now  came  back  to 
the  light.  Evening  approached.  The  reporters  had 
called  and  had  "  noted  down  "  the  floral  designs, 
and  it  was  evident  that  the  old  manager  would  now 
lie  for  a  time  in  the  gathering  flower-shadows  of 
perfect  quiet,  when  there  came  a  sprucely-dressed 
young  man  who  said  that  he  would  like  to  "  view 
the  body."  He  carried  a  large  pad  of  paper  and  a 
half  dozen  pencils  sharpened  at  both  ends,  and 
was  set  off  with  the  airs  of  a  great  mission. 

108 


110  INTERVIEWED   A   CORPSE. 

"  I  am  a  reporter,"  said  he,  "  and  have  been  sent 
here  to  write  up  this — this  sad  affair.  Yes,  I 
understand  that  all  the  boys  have  been  here.  I've 
been  interviewing  a  United  States  senator  and 
couldn't  get  away  any  sooner.  We  have  to  grab 
live  issues  first,  you  know,  and  let  the  dead  ones 
wait;"  and  then  realizing,  or  rather  supposing,  that 
he  had  something  worth  recalling,  he  made  a  few 
flourishing  marks  on  his  pad.  It  may  not  be  a 
"wind-shake"  to  this  recital  if  I  interject  a  few 
words  relative  to  this  young  man.  He  was  gradu 
ated  with  distinction  at  an  institution  of  learning 
that  uses  a  bronzed  letter-head,  and  a  few  weeks 
ago  came  to  this  city  to  make  a  name  in  journal 
ism.  His  first  exploit  was  the  writing  of  a  6,000- 
word  description  of  a  $4,000  fire,  and  the  subsequent 
humiliation  of  seeing  ten  lines  in  print.  This 
taught  him  to  look  for  something  new,  and  he  did 
look,  but  found  that  all  the  paths  leading  to  great 
newspaper  achievement  had  been  wearily  plodded 
many  a  time.  He  thought  of  this  as  he  stood  in 
the  theatre  asking  permission  to  see  the  dead  man 
ager.  When  he  had  been  shown  into  the  green 
room,  now  red  with  roses,  he  turned  to  the  attend 
ant  and  said: 

"  What  a  scoop  it  would  be  to  interview  a 
corpse." 

The  attendant  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  not 
to  aay  disgust 


INTEBYIEWED  A  COKPSE.  Ill 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  know  that  such  a  thing  is 
impossible,"  the  young  man  continued,  "  but  what 
a  scoop  it  would  be  if  such  a  thing  could  be  done. 
These  cards  here  tell  who  sen*  the  flowers,  eh  ? 
Well,  don't  let  me  detain  you.  I  can  get  along  all 
right." 

The  attendant  withdrew  and  the  reporter  began 
to  pick  about  among  the  floral  pieces  to  place  the 
cards  so  that  he  could  read  them,  when  suddenly, 
and  with  ice  water  effect,  a  hollow-sounding  voice 
said: 

"  So  you  would  like  to  interview  a  corpse?" 

The  reporter  sprang  back  and  looked  about  him. 
He  was  alone  with  the  flower-baptized  body  of  the 
manager. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  said  the  hollow  voice. 
"  Remember  that  I  am  incapable  of  inflicting  any 
harm  upon  you,  even  if  I  felt  disposed  to  do  so. 
Stay  if  you  are  a  man  of  any  nerve.  The  opportu 
nity  of  your  life  has  come.  Interview  me." 

"  I  don't  understand — "  the  reporter  gasped. 

"  Of  course  not:  but  calm  your  excitement  and 
be  reasonable." 

"  What!  be  reasonable  with  a  corpse?" 

"  Ah,"  said  the  dead  man,  "  you  are  getting  at  it 
now.  A  man  approaches  his  best  when  he  begins 
to  deliver  himself  of  pointed  declarations.  If  you 
are  sufficiently  restored  to  normalcy,  to  use  a  rare 


112  INTERVIEWED   A   CORPSE. 

if  not  a  dead  word,  let  me  request  you  to  proceed 
with  your  interview." 

"  But  I  can't  believe  that  a  corpse  is  talking  to 
me,"  the  reporter  replied,  still  nervous. 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  you  should  know  that  all  things 
are  strange  to  us  until  we  become  acquainted  with 
them.  You  are  prepared  to  believe  almost  any 
story  of  the  progress  of  science  and  invention  on 
your  side  of  death,  but  are  totally  unprepared  to 
believe  in  any  progress  made  on  my  side  of  what 
men  falsely  term  the  eternal  and  dreamless  sleep." 

"  I  was  never  startled  so  in  my  life,"  said  the 
reporter. 

"I  can  well  believe  that,"  the  dead  manager 
replied. 

""When  I  spoke  of  what  a  scoop  it  would  be 
to  interview  a  corpse  I  had  no  idea  that  such  an 
opportunity  would  ever  offer  itself;  and,  by  the 
way,  you  don't  move  your  lips  when  you  talk." 

"  Of  course  not,"  the  corpse  answered.  "  If  I 
moved  I  should  not  be  dead.  But  if  you  will  place 
your  hand  near  my  lips  you  will  feel  the  cold  air — " 

"  No,  no,"  the  reporter  quickly  broke  in,  draw 
ing  back. 

"  Well,  then,  you'll  have  to  take  my  statement 
if  you  arc  not  willing  to  investigate  my  references." 
Then  there  came  a  peculiar  noise.  Could  it  be  pos 
sible  that  the  corpse  was  laughing  ? 


INTERVIEWED  A  CORPSE.  lie 

"  I  didn't  know  there  were  any  jokes  beyond 
the  grave,"  said  reporter. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  the  corpse  replied.  "  We  get  them 
out  of  the  dead  humorous  papers.  In  fact  the 
grave  supplies  the  funny  departments  in  all  the 
magazines.  But  if  you  are  going  to  interview  me 
concerning  my  present  state  please  proceed,  as  I 
have  but  a  few  moments  more  during  which  to  blow 
cold  air  back  upon  the  earth." 

<f  Where  are  you  now?"  the  reporter  asked. 

"I  am  standing  just  inside  another  world,  but 
what  it  is  I  can  not  well  make  out.  I  have  learned 
a  great  deal  since  my  arrival,  but  am  still  at  the 
very  threshold  of  knowledge.  I  have  learned  that 
the  so-called  democracy  of  death  is  an  error.  The 
inequalities  of  earth  are  a  dead  flat  prairie  compared 
with  the  mountainous  grades  of  this  existence,  but 
with  you  caste  is  fostered  by  shrewdness,  and  often 
villainy,  while  here  classes  are  on  a  moral  and  intel 
lectual  basis." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  spirits  of  many  persons  who 
were  great  on  earth  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  majority  of  them  are  a  sorry  lot. 
The  saddest  sight  here  is  the  spirit  of  a  rich  vulga 
rian  hopelessly  attempting  to  pose  with  import 
ance." 

"  I  suppose  your  world,  or  whatever  you  may  call 
it,  is  a  place  of  constant  progress.  I  mean  that  the 


114  INTERVIEWED   A   COBP8& 

soul  climbs  higher  as — I  was  going  to  say  as  time 
advances." 

"  Oh,  yes.  The  good  which  a  man  has  accom 
plished  is  placed  as  an  offset  to  his  evil  deeds,  and 
a  balance  is  struck.  He  is  then  graded  according 
to  nis  worth." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  you  stand?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  have  been  told  con 
fidentially  that  I  am  likely  to  be  pretty  severely 
judged  for  stage  favoritism.  For  instance  the  puff 
ing  of  lubberly  stars  when  nimble  men  of  true 
merit  should  have  been  put  forward." 

"Have  you  seen  Shakespeare  yet?" 

"  Have  I  seen  him  ?  How  long  do  you  suppose  I 
shall  have  to  wait  and  apply  myself  to  the  courses 
of  study  prescribed  in  this  land  of  eternity  before  I 
can  come  within  sight  of  him  ?" 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  I  suppose  not.  I  have  been  told  that  I  may 
come  within  sight  of  him,  by  close  application,  in 
what  you  would  know  as  500  years." 

"  Is  he,  indeed,  so  far  away?" 

"  No,  he  is  not  so  far  away  in  the  worldly  sense — 
in  truth  he  may  be  near  me  now,  but  I  can  not  see 
him — my  soul  eyes  must  be  purified  before, they  can 
behold  him.  I — "  there  was  a  sound  like  a  sign 
and  the  corpse  ceased  to  speak. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say?"  the  reporter 
asked. 


IlfTEBVIEWED   A   CORPSE.  115 

The  dead  manager  did  not  reply. 

"  They  have  cut  him  off,"  said  the  reporter.  "  Pd 
like  to  know  more,  but  who  will  believe  me  when  I 
say  that  I  have  interviewed  a  corpse  ?  " 

He  dropped  his  pad  and  pencils  and  started  in 
fright,  and  then,  catching  up  the  appliances  of  his 
trade,  hastily  withdrew. 

****** 

A  short  man  with  a  big  neck  and  curly  hair 
stepped  from  behind  a  curtain  and  softly  laughed  as 
though  he  had  played,  with  the  .accomplishments  of 
a  Punch  and  Judy  voice-trickster,  a  capital  joke  on 
a  man  who  helps  to  prepare  sensational  reading 
matter  for  an  eager  public. 


MONTGOMERY  PEEL. 


I  SHALL  never  forget  the  first  time  I  ever  saw 
Montgomery  Peel.  He  was,  as  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  presiding  at  the  preliminary  trial  of  Andrew 
Brukemore,  charged  with  the  murder  of  David  C. 
Cahoon.  I  was  a  mere  boy  at  the  time,  but  I 
remember  that  Montgomery  Peel  made  a  profound 
impression  on  me,  and  I  also  recollect  that  when 
my  father,  in  answer  to  a  question,  said  that  a  jus 
tice  of  the  peace  was  not  a  high  ofiicer,  I  wondered 
why  Peel  had  taken  the  place — wondered  why  he 
had  not  declared  himself  governor  of  the  State.  He 
was  a  very  tall  man,  with  black,  inquiring  eyes  and 
a  great  growth  of  dark-brown  whiskers.  He  pre 
sided  as  my  ideal  of  dignity;  his  voice  was  pene 
trating  and  his  questions  were  to  the  point.  At 
first  every  one  appeared  to  think  that  Andrew 
Brukemore  was  surely  the  murderer  of  David  C. 
Cahoon,  but  as  the  examination  proceeded,  as  the 
justice  threw  the  soft  light  of  apparent  innocence 
upon  the  dark  complexion  of  seeming  guilt,  it  was 

117 


118  MONTGOMERY  PEEL. 

plainly  seen  that  the  prisoner  would  not  be  held  to 
await  the  action  of  the  grand  jury. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Montgomery  Peel,  arising  and 
addressing  the  assembly,  "  I  have  attempted  to  look 
with  the  eye  of  calmness  and  wisdom  into  this  case. 
I  have  blunted  my  ears  to  the  whisperings  of  preju 
dice,  and  within  myself  I  have  quieted  every 
impulse  that  sought  to  jump  toward  a  hasty  conclu 
sion.  At  first  the  evidence  was  bold  against  this 
man,  but  what  at  first  seemed  to  be  a  wall  of  evi 
dence  now  proves  to  be  a  fog  of  deception.  Andrew 
Brukemore,"  he  continued,  turning  majestically  to 
the  prisoner,  "  there  are  times,  sir,  when  we  are  all 
called  upon  to  face  trials  of  dark  severity.  You 
have  faced  yours,  and  now  step  aside  without  a  stain 
upon  your  garments.  Gentlemen,  it  is  my  desire 
that  you  all  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Brukemore." 

The  scene  was  affecting.  In  that  quiet  Virginia 
community  murder  was  of  rare  occurrence;  indeed, 
many  old  men  who  were  present  had  never  before 
eeen  a  prisoner  held  under  so  grave  a  charge. 
Every  one  pressed  forward  and  shook  hands  with 
Brukemore,  and  I  remember  hearing  a  red-headed, 
freckled-faced  boy  say: 

"  I  reckon  the  folks  air  cryin\  pap,  'cause  they  air 
sorry  they  ain't  goin'  to  hang  him." 

This  trial  seemed  to  make  a  different  man  of 
Montgomery  Peel,  for  he  attended  church  more 


MONTGOMERY   PEEL.  119 

regularly,  and  when  his  term  of  office  expired  ho 
did  not  announce  himself  as  a  candidate  for  re-elec 
tion. 

One  day,  several  years  later,  father  and  I  were 
riding  through  the  woods  when  we  came  upon  Mont 
gomery  Peel,  cutting  down  a  tree. 

"Why,  what  are  you  doing  here?"  my  fathe* 
asked.  "  You  are  surely  not  chopping  firewood  this 
hot  weather." 

"  No,"  said  the  giant — and  he  was  indeed  a  giant 
— "  I  am  going  to  build  a  house." 

"  What,  build  a  house  away  out  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  the  house  I  am  going  to  build  would  be 
out  of  place  anywhere  except  in  the  quiet  woods.  I 
am  going  to  build  a  church," 

"  It  will  take  a  strong  preacher,  Peel,  to  draw  a 
congregation  away  up  here." 

"If  the  size  of  the  congregation  depends  upon  the 
strength  of  the  preacher,  it  is  likely  to  be  small,  for 
I  am  to  be  the  preacher." 

"  You  are  joking." 

"Did  you  ever  know  me  to  joke?"  he  asked, 
standing  with  one  hand  resting  on  the  tree  and  gaz 
ing  earnestly  at  my  father. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did,  Peel,  but  I  can 
hardly  believe  that  a  man  of  your  bright  prospects 
could  content  himself  with  preaching  in  this  lonely 
place.  Why,  there  is  not  a  house  within  three 
milsa" 


120  MONTGOMERY   PEEL. 

"  Peter  sometimes  preached  many  miles  distant 
from  a  house,  yet  thousands  of  people  went  to  hear 
him." 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,  but  Peter  proclaimed  a  new 
and  interesting  gospel,  while  you  can  only  hope  to 
follow  in  a  well-worn  path." 

He  gazed  intently  at  my  father,  and  thus  an 
swered:  "  We  have  seen  a  path  that  was  worn,  and 
then  we  have  seen  it  deserted — have  seen  the  grass 
and  weeds  grow  where  the  ground  was  once  made 
smooth  and  bare  by  many  feet." 

"  True  enough,  Peel ;  and  now  let  me  say  that  if 
you  are  in  earnest,  I  hope  that  you  may  be  instru 
mental  in  drawing  thousands  from  the  wickedness 
of  the  world." 

"  I  dare  not  hope  to  draw  thousands,"  said  he. 
"  I  dare  not  picture  to  my  mind  a  multitude  flock 
ing  to  hear  me — but  I  will  dare  hope  to  draw  one 
soul  away  from  an  awaiting  destruction,  and,  if  I 
do  even  that  much,  I  shall  feel  that  my  church  has 
been  built  to  some  purpose." 

As  we  rode  along,  my  father  was  silent  for  some 
time,  and  then,  as  though  speaking  to  himself,  said: 
"  The  poor  fellow  has  lost  his  mind." 

The  report  that  Montgomery  Peel  was  building 
a  church  far  away  in  the  woods  naturally  awakened 
great  interest  in  the  community.  Many  of  the  men 
declared  that  he  must  have  lost  his  mind,  but  the 


MONTGOMERY   PEEL.  121 

women,  with  that  hopeful  sympathy  which  ever 
expects  a  good  result  from  an  ostensibly  pious  action, 
averred  that  he  was  appointed  to  bring  about  a  great 
reformation.  Wives  persuaded  their  husbands  to 
assist  in  building  the  church,  and  thus  aided,  Peel 
was  soon  ready  to  deliver  his  first  sermon.  It  was 
on  a  Sunday,  warm,  bright  and  beautiful,  that  hun 
dreds  of  people  flocked  to  see  him.  I  remember 
hearing  one  man,  a  cynical  fellow,  remark:  "  Oh, 
he  has  gone  off  this  way  for  effect.  He  knows  that 
if  he  had  gone  into  a  regular  church  nobody  would 
pay  any  attention  to  him.  He  always  was  a  sort  of 
theatrical  fellow  anyway." 

"  "Why  do  you  call  him  a  theatrical  fellow?"  the 
man's  wife  spoke  up.  "  I  am  sure  that  I  never  heard 
of  his  going  to  a  theatre." 

"  Mary  Ann,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talk 
ing  about." 

"  I  know  enough  not  to  talk  about  a  man  that  is 
trying  to  do  good  in  the  world." 

"Good  in  the  world!"  her  husband  contemptu 
ously  repeated.  "  There's  altogether  too  much  talk 
these  days  about  men  doing  good  in  the  world.  If 
a  man  wants  to  do  good,  why  don't  he  plant  some 
thing  and  raise  stuff  for  the  people  to  eat  ?" 

"It  is  quite  as  important  to  take  care  of  poor  peo 
ple's  souls." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  The  Lord  will  fix 
the  soul  business  all  right." 


122  MONTGOMERY   PEEL. 

The  church  was  crowded.  Montgomery  Pee 
stepped  forward  on  a  sort  of  platform,  still  majestic 
but  with  a  sprinkling  of  gray  in  his  beard.  A  hymx 
was  sung,  a  prayer  was  offered,  and  then  the  preachei 
thus  began: 

"My  friends,  I  will  not  explain  why  I  have 
erected  this  church,  other  than  that  I  have  taken  it 
upon  myself  to  preach  the  word  of  God.  I  do  not 
come  before  you  claiming  to  have  been  directly 
called  to  deliver  the  word  unto  you — that  is,  I 
heard  no  voice  telling  me  to  preach,  but  I  did  feel 
that  I  could  do  much  good  and  that  it  was  my  duty 
to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  this  service.  I  uhall 
attempt  no  revolution,  and  those  of  you  that  have 
come  expecting  to  hear  a  new  doctrine,  or  even  a 
new  explanation  of  an  old  doctrine,  will  be  disap 
pointed.  I  believe  that  immortal  fruit  grows  upon 
the  tree  of  sincere  repentance.  I  believe  that 
of  us  owes  to  God  a  life  of  simple  purity  and  i 
esty.  Our  allotted  time  on  earth  is  but  a  few  dcys, 
and  what  should  we  gain  though  we  be  placed  in 
high  position  among  men,  for  high  positions  8t  on 
crumble  into  the  dust  of  forgetfulness  and  men  Sf  on 
pass  away.  It  is  not  enough  simply  to  declare  tf.  at 
we  love  the  Lord,  for  love  is  often  selfish ;  it  is  i.  ot 
enough  simply  to  praise  the  Lord,  for  praise  is 
sometimes  the  off-shoot  of  fear.  "While  profess!  g 
to  love  the  Lord,  and  while  showing  that  we  prai  o 


MONTGOMERY    PEEL.  128 

Him,  we  must  look  with  tenderness  upon  the  faults 
of  others,  we  must  speak  no  evil  word  of  a  neighbor, 
neither  shall  we  bear  tales,  for  the  man  who  comes 
and  tells  us  that  some  one  has  spoken  in  our  dis 
praise,  may  profess  that  he  took  our  part  and  hushed 
the  mouth  of  slander,  yet  he  destroys  our  happiness 
for  an  entire  day.  Every  Sunday  hereafter — that 
is,  so  long  as  I  am  able — I  shall  preach  in  this 
house,  urging  repentance  and  kindness  of  heart. 
Many  people  have  wondered  at  the  great  change 
that  has  come  over  me.  This  was  a  natural  result 
of  so  unexpected  an  action.  Bear  with  me — come 
and  commune  with  me,  and  I  do  not  think  that  any 
one  will  ever  regret  that  this  humble  house  was 
placed  here  among  the  trees." 

Many  years  passed.  I  grew  up  and  wandered  in 
foreign  countries.  My  father  passed  away,  and 
still,  a  letter  from  an  old  friend  told  me,  Montgom 
ery  Peel  continued  to  preach.  I  returned  home, 
and  on  the  following  Sunday  went  to  the  log  church, 
now  almost  covered  with  moss.  The  congregation 
was  singing  a  hymn  when  my  friend  and  I  entered. 

"  Where  is  the  preacher?'"  I  asked  whea  wa  had 
sat  down. 

"  Hasn't  come  up  yet.  He  lives  in  a  cellar  imme 
diately  under  the  floor,  and  has  grown  so  old  and 
infirm  that  we  sometimes  have  to  wait  for  him." 

The  hymn  was  finished  and  still  he  did  not  come. 


MONTGOMERY   PEEL. 

^  other  hymn  was  sung  and  then  a  man  arose  and 
jaid  that  he  would  go  down  and  see  if  anything  had 
happened  to  tho  preacher.  The  man  soon  returned. 
"  Brethren,"  said  he,  "  tho  old  man  is  dead.  Those 
of  you  who  desire  to  do  so  may  come  down  and  see 
him." 

Nearly  every  one  shrank  back,  but  I  went  down 
into  the  cellar.  The  old  man,  shriveled  and  white 
with  age,  lay  upon  a  bed  of  straw.  The  place  was 
dark,  and  when  we  held  a  candle  near  his  face  we 
found  a  paper  pinned  to  the  bosom  of  his  shirt. 
Written  on  the  outside  of  the  paper  were  these 
words:  "Bead  this  to  the  congregation." 

We  went  upstairs,  and  the  man  that  had  found 
the  dead  preacher  thus  addressed  the  awe-stricken 
congregation:  "Brethren  and  sisters,  we  have  a 
communication  from  the  old  gentleman,  whose  voice 
you  shall  never  again  hear."  He  then  read  as  fol 
lows: 

'  The  hand  of  death  is  upon  me,  and  I  feel  that 
it  is  my  duty  to  say  a  few  words  to  you,  my  dear 
people.  You  have  been  so  good,  so  patient  and  so 
kind  that  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul.  I  have 
loved  you  ever  since  I  needed  your  love.  I  will 
tell  you  when  I  first  needed  your  love  and  sym 
pathy:  Many  years  ago  I  was  walking  along  a 
lonely  road.  Night  hawks  may  have  cried,  but  I 
did  not  hear  them;  I  could  not  have  heard  the 


MONTGOMERY   PEEL.  125 

yoice  of  an  angel  had  it  shouted  at  me.  I  met  a 
man — I  knew  that  he  was  coming  that  way.  '  Hold,' 
said  I.  He  stopped  and  asked  what  I  wanted.  '  I 
want  you,'  said  I.  '  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?' 
'  I  want  you  to  give  me  something.'  '  What  do  you 
want  me  to  give?'  'Your  life.'  '  Why?'  'Because 
you  ruined  my  home  years  ago.'  I  sprang  on  him 
there  in  the  moonlight.  I  cut  out  his  heart  and 
wiped  his  face  with  it.  That  man  was  David  G 
Oahoon." 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  ROMANCE 


CHAPTER  I. 

CAPT.  BILFOBD  is  known  as  one  of  the  bravest 
and  most  gallant  officers  of  the  United  States  army. 
He  is  one  of  those  odd  bachelors  to  whom  the  pass 
ing  years  bring  additional  installments  of  romance. 
I  have  seen  him  go  into  ecstatic  spasms  over  a  spout 
spring  in  the  mountains,  and  have  known  him  to  lie 
under  a  tree  and  shed  tears  over  the  misfortunes  of 
a  heroine  drawn  by  some  fourth -class  romancer; 
but  in  action  he  was  so  fearless  that  his  brother 
officers  excused  what  they  pleased  to  term  his  soft 
qualities. 

A  short  time  ago  the  Captain  was  granted  a  leave 
of  absence.  He  had  long  since  grown  tired  of  all 
the  fashionable  watering-places,  and  no  longer  could 
find  anything  in  the  cities  to  interest  him ;  so  the 
question  of  how  he  should  spend  that  time,  which 
was  all  his  own,  began  to  perplex  him. 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  both  the  wild  and  civilized 
life  of  our  country,"  said  he,  addressing  a  friend. 


127 


128  THE   CAPTAIN'S   BOMANCK 

"  I  know  the  wild  Indian  and  the  Boston  swell ;  andj, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.1' 

"Yes,  you  are  acquainted  with  the  extremes," 
the  friend  rejoined;  "but  do  you  know  much  of  the 
intermediate?  You  have  made  a  study  of  the  In 
dian  in  his  wild  state,  but  do  you  know  anything  of 
him  as  a  citizen  ?  Why  not  go  to  the  Indian  Ter 
ritory,  the  Cherokee  Nation,  for  instance,  and  amuse 
yourself  by  studying  the  habits  of  the  Indian 
farmer?" 

The  Captain  was  so  impressed  with  the  idea  that 
the  next  day  he  set  out  for  the  Indian  Territory. 
He  found  the  country  to  be  beautiful,  with  hills  of 
charming  contemplation  and  valleys  of  enrapturing 
romance.  Streams  like  moving  silver  thrilled  him, 
and  the  birds,  whom  it  seemed  had  just  found  new 
songs,  made  the  leaves  quiver  with  echoing  music. 
After  several  days  of  delightful  roaming  the  Cap 
tain  rented  a  small  cabin,  and,  having  provided  him 
self  with  a  few  cooking  utensils,  settled  down  to 
housekeeping.  With  the  rifle  and  the  fishing  rod 
he  provided  ample  food,  and  as  he  soon  became 
acquainted  with  several  farmers  he  thought,  over 
and  over  again,  that  his  romantic  craving  had  never 
before  approached  so  near  to  (in  his  own  words) 
sublime  satisfaction.  His  nearest  neighbor,  four 
miles  distant,  was  an  Indian  farmer  named  Tom 
Patterson.  His  family  consisted  of  a  wife  a?,d  one 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  BOMANOB.  129 

daughter,  a  rather  handsome  girl  She  had  learned 
to  read  and  write ;  and,  as  she  seemed  to  b«  romantic, 
the  Captain  soon  became  much  interested  in  her. 

Patterson  was  rather  a  kind-hearted  old  fellow, 
accommodating  in  everything  but  answering  ques 
tions  concerning  his  family;  but  this  was  not  an 
eccentricity,  for  all  Indians  are  disposed  to  say  as 
little  as  possible  with  regard  to  themselves.  Ansy, 
the  girl,  was  fond  of  fishing,  and  as  no  restraint  was 
placed  upon  her  actions,  she  and  the  Captain  (his 
words  again)  had  many  a  delightful  stroll. 

There  was,  I  had  forgotten  to  mention,  another 
member  of  the  Patterson  household,  a  negro  named 
Alf.  He  was  as  dark  as  the  musings  of  a  dyspep 
tic,  but  he  was  good-natured  and  obliging. 

"Bather  odd  that  a  colored  man,  so  fond  of  polit 
ical  life,  should  live  out  here  away  from  the  States, 
isn't  it,  Alf?"  the  Captain  one  day  asked. 

"Wall,  no,  sah,  kain't  say  dat  it  is.  Dar's  er 
right  smart  sprinklin'  o'  us  generman  out  yare,  an' 
dough  we's  mighty  fur  erpart,  we  manages  ter  keep 
up  good  'sciety,  sah.  Yes,  sah,  an'  ef  it  wa'n't  fur 
de  cullud  generman  in  dis  yare  'munity,  w'y  de  Ter 
ritory  would  done  been  gone  ter  rack  an*  ruin. 
Caze  why?  I'll  tell  you,  sah.  De  Ingin  is  a 
mighty  han*  ter  furnish  meat,  but  gittin'  o'  de 
bread  is  a  different  thing.  In  udder  words,  sah,  he 
kin  kill  er  deer  but  he  ain't  er  good  han7  to  raise 


180  THE  CAPTAIN'S  ROMANCE. 

00*11.  Yes,  sab,  de  nigger  ken  plow  all  roun*  de 
Ingin,  an'  de  Ingin  knowin'  dis,  ginally  gins  de 
niggah  er  good  chance." 

"You  work  with  Mr.  Patterson  on  shares,  don't 
you?"' 

"Yas,  sahjha'f  o'  dis  crap  'longs  ter  me.  Wy, 
fo*  I  come  yare  dare  wa'n't  hardly  nuthin'  raised  on 
dis  place  but  weeds  an'  grass.  I  happened  to  meet 
Patterson  in  Fort  Smif  one  time.  He  hearn  me 
talk  erbout  f  armin'  an'  den  he  made  a  dead  set  at 
me  tar  come  home  wid  him." 

"Are  the  people  throughout  this  neighborhood 
Tery  peaceable?" 

"Yes,  sah,  lessen  da  gits  'spicious  o'  er  pussen, 
an'  den  look  out.  Da  looks  cuiis  at  ever'  stranger, 
thinkin1  dat  he's  spyin'  'roun  an'  tryin'  ter  talk  de 
Injuns  in  faber  o'  openin*  up  dis  yare  territory. 
Par's  er  passul  o'  fellers  ober  de  creek  dat  calls 
darselves  de  Glicks.  Da  is  allus  s'picious,  an'  I 
tells  you  whut's  er  fack,  I'd  ruther  hab  er  team  o' 
mules  run  ober  me  an'  den  be  butted  by  a  muley 
steer — an*  I  does  think  way  down  in  my  cibilization 
dat  er  muley  steer  ken  thump  harder  den  anything 
on  de  face  o1  de  yeth — den  ter  hab  dem  Glicks  git 
atter  me.  Seed  Jem  hang  er  pusson  once  jes'  fur 
nuthin1  in  de  worP,  an*  da  didn'  ax  him  no  ques 
tions,  nuthero'1 

As  the  days  passed  the  girl  seemed  to  be  more 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  BOMANOE.  131 

and  more  pleased  with  the  Captain.  One  evening 
they  sat  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  fishing,  The  sun 
had  sunk  beyond  a  distant  hill,  but  continued  to 
pour  over  his  light,  like  a  golden  waterfall. 

"Ansy,"  said  the  Captain,  "this  is  a  beautiful  and 
romantic  country ;  but  do  you  not  grow  tired  of  liv 
ing  here  all  the  time?" 

"If  we  don't  know  any  other  life  we  do  not  grow 
tired  of  this  one,"  she  replied. 

"You  are  a  little  philosopher,"  the  captain 
exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  is,  Captain,  but  if  you 
want  me  to  be  one  I  will  try  to  be." 

The  Captain  smiled  and  regarded  her  with  a  look 
of  affection. 

"The  great  cities  would  delight  you  for  a  time, 
Ansy,  and  then  you  could  come  back  here  with  a 
heightened  appreciation  of  the  sublime  surround 
ings  of  your  own  home." 

"The  sun  has  blown  out  his  candle,"  she  said, 
pointing.  "It  is  time  for  us  to  go." 


132  THE  CAPTAIN'S  BOMANCE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Captain  could  not  sleep.  He  had  extin,. 
guished  his  lamp,  but  on  the  wall  there  was  a 
bright  light.  It  grew  brighter,  and  then  he  saw 
that  it  was  the  face  of  Ansy.  A  rap  came  at  the 
door. 

"Who's  there?" 

"  Captain,  for  God's  sake  run  away.  The  Glicks 
are  coming  after  yon." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Ansy. 

The  Captain  dressed  himself  and  opened  the  door. 
The  girl  was  gone.  The  moon  was  shining.  The 
officer  was  not  the  man  to  run  away.  He  closed  the 
door,  took  up  a  repeating  rifle  and  opened  a  small 
window.  He  waited.  A  few  moments  passed  and 
he  saw  several  men  enter  the  clearing  in  front  of  the 
cabin. 

"  What  do  you  want  here?"  the  Captain  shouted 

"We  want  you." 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?  " 

"  Ask  you  some  questions." 

"  You  may  ask  questions,  but  don't  come  a  step 
nearer." 

"What  did  you  come  here  for?" 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  ROMANCE.  133 

"  None  of  your  business." 

This  reply  created  a  commotion.  The  Captain 
could  hear  the  marauders  swearing.  "We'll  break 
down  the  door,"  one  of  them  said  as  he  stepped  for 
ward.  The  next  moment  he  had  fallen  to  the  ground. 
When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away  the  Captain  saw 
that  the  rascals  were  gone,  but  there  soon  came  from 
the  woods  a  shower  of  blazing  arrows.  It  was  time 
to  get  away.  The  Captain  made  a  hole  in  the  roof, 
crawled  out,  sprang  to  the  ground  and  hurried  into 
the  woods. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  went  to  Patterson's 
house.  The  family  had  heard  of  the  fight. 

"  You  iieenter  be  'larmed  now,  dough,  sah,"  said 
Alf,  the  negro,  "  caze  da  foun'  out  dat  you  wuz  er 
Newnited  States  ossifer,  an'  it  skeered  'em  putty 
nigh  ter  def.  You  gin  it  ter  one  o'  'em  putty 
hard,  I  ken  tell  you.  Shot  him  squar  through,  an' 
da  doan  think  he  gwine  ter  lib,  da  doan,  but  dat 
am'  no  matter,  fur  he  wuz  de  wust  one  in  de  bunch. 
Ef  he  dies,  folks  'roun'  yare  will  hoi'  er  pra'r-meet- 
in'  thankin'  de  Lawd." 

Patterson  and  his  wife  left  the  room,  but  the  ne 
gro  sat  in  the  doorway. 

"Ansy,"  said  the  Captain,  "I  owe  my  life  to  you." 

"  Dat  you  does,  sah,"  Alf  replied. 

The  Captain  gave  him  a  significant  glance  and 
again  turned  to  the  girl. 


134  THE  CAPTAIN'S  ROMANCE. 

"  Yes,  you  have  saved  my  life,  but  that  is  not  the 
cause  of  iny  deep — deep  (he  glanced  at  the  negro) 
— deep  regard  for  you." 

The  girl  made  no  reply.  The  Captain  could  have 
killed  the  negro.  "  I  will  ignore  his  black  pres 
ence,"  the  Captain  mused.  He  leaned  over  and 
took  the  girl's  hand. 

"Ansy,"  said  the  negro,  "  w'en  dis  yare  generman 
gits  through  wid  yo'  han'  I  wants  you  ter  sew  er  few 
buttons  on  dat  ar  hickory  shirt  o'  mine." 

"  You  scoundrel,"  exclaimed  the  Captain,  spring 
ing  to  his  feet,  "  how  dare  you  speak  in  such  a  man 
ner  to  this  young  lady?" 

"Why,  boss,"  the  negro  replied,  "  what's  de  use'n 
makin'  sich  er  great  'miration.  Dat  'oman  has  been 
my  wife  fur  putty  nigh  two  years." 

The  Captain's  romance  was  ended. 


AN  HISTORIC  SHELL. 


I  AM  not  going  to  tell  a  war  story,  that  is  to 
say,  I  am  not  going  to  invade  the  province  of 
the  monthly  magazine,  and  describe  with  linger 
ing  fondness  of  detail  a  campaign  made  great  by 
my  own  person al  interest.  My  name  is  John  Norton. 
During  the  war  I  was  a  captain  in  an  Indian  regi 
ment.  On  the  morning  of  July  4,  1863, .  we  lay 
under  the  sullen  countenance  of  Vicksburg.  The 
city  had  surrendered,  and  our  tired  men  were  lying 
about  on  the  ground,  waiting  for  the  forming  of 
the  detachment  that  should  march  in  and  occupy 
the  city.  I  was  lying  in  a  fence-corner  with  my 
head  in  the  wavering  shade  of  an  alder  bush; 
and,  upon  glancing  in  the  grass  near  me,  I  saw 
a  terrapin  crawling  away.  I  took  it  up,  and,  yield 
ing  to  a  fancy,  I  carved  my  name  and  "  July  4, 
1863,"  on  the  reptile's  shell.  I  was  much  pleased 
with  the  gracefulness  of  the  lettering,  for  my  civil 
vocation  was  that  of  an  engraver,  and  after  con 
templating  it  for  a  time  I  shoved  the  date-bearer 
through  a  crack  of  the  fence,  so  that  it  might 


185 


186  AN   HISTORIC   SHELL. 

escape  the  sight  of  any  of  our  men.  A  short 
time  afterward,  dusty  and  hot,  I  was  marching 
through  the  streets  of  the  war-stricken  town. 

Last  year  I  went  down  to  Vicksburg,  having 
become  the  president  of  a  company  organized  to 
establish  a  cotton  seed  oil  mill  in  that  city.  One 
day,  with  an  idea  of  securing  the  coming  crop 
of  cotton  seed,  I  had  driven  out  to  several  large 
plantations,  and  was  returning,  when  a  dark  cloud 
that  hung  in  the  west  warned  me  that  unless  I 
sought  shelter  I  should  get  wet.  I  drove  up  to 
a  double  log -house  situated  near  the  roadside, 
and  was  tying  my  horse,  when  an  elderly-looking 
man,  who  had  been  mowing  grass  in  the  yard, 
hung  his  scythe  in  a  tree,  and  came  forward  to 
meet  me. 

"  Needn't  hitch  yo'  hoss  thar,"  he  said,  "  fur 
yo'  buggy'll  git  wetter  'ner  drownded  rat.  Jest 
come  on  inter  the  house,  an'  I'll  have  a  nigger 
drive  the  vehicle  under  the  shed.  Glad  ter  see 
er  rain  comin',"  he  added,  as  he  turned  and  gazed 
at  the  cloud.  "  Er  rain  on  the  Fo'th  of  July  allus 
putty  nigh  inshores  er  good  crap  uv  cotton.  Bill  " 
(calling  a  negro),  "come  here  an'  drive  this  here 
contraption  round  under  the  shed." 

He  then  invited  me  into  the  house,  and,  just 
as  we  had  reached  the  hewed  log  steps,  a  girl, 
flirting  her  apron,  and  following  a  hen  and  chick- 


AN   HISTOEIO  SHELL.  137 

ens,  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house.  She 
blushed  when  she  saw  me,  dropped  her  apron, 
and,  I  thought,  was  about  to  run  away,  when  her 
father  said: 

"  Hurry  up  thar,  Zudie,  an'  git  them  chickens 
in  the  hen  house,  ur  they'll  all  be  drownded^ 
Come  in,  mister.  It  would  be  a  leetle  mo'  com- 
f  t'ble  out  here  on  the  po'ch,  but  ez  the  rain  is 
drivin'  thiser  way,  we  better  set  in  this  room." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  room  darkened  by  the 
approaching  cloud,  and,  pointing  to  an  old-fash 
ioned  arm-chair,  said:  "  Set  right  down  thar,  and 
make  yo'se'f  ez  much  at  home  ez  if  you'd  fotch 
that  cheer  with  you.  Live  about  here  anywhar?" 

When  I  had  given  him  a  brief  account  of  myself, 
he  added:  "Glad  ter  welcome  you  down  here.  I 
ain't  been  around  much  myse'f,  but  I  like  ter  see 
folks  that  has.  Ben  livin'  here  all  my  life.  Wife 
she  died  two  years  ago.  Thar's  the  rain." 

The  girl  bounded  into  the  room.  She  shook 
the  rain-drops  from  her  "beautiful  wealth  of  hair," 
and  sat  down  near  the  window.  Her  face  shone 
in  bright  outlines  against  the  darkened  panes,  and 
when  she  smiled  at  some  remark  her  father  made 
and  revealed,  with  a  sudden  gleam,  her  pearl-like 
teeth,  I  fancied  that  a  fleck  of  silver  had  been 
thrown  against  the  cloud.  I  hesitate  to  acknowl 
edge  that  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  that  moment;  I 


138  AM   HISTORIC   8HELL. 

hesitate  because  I  think  we  should  be  influenced  by 
judgment  rather  than  be  moved  by  impulse;  yet, 
as  I  eat  there  and  gazed  at  that  girl,  I  could  not 
help  loving  her;  still,  it  was  absurd.  She  was  not 
more  than  seventeen;  I  was  getting  pretty  well 
along  in  years.  My  hair  bore  not  a  streak  of  gray, 
and  I  knew  that  I  moved  with  more  agility  than 
many  a  younger  man,  but  the  words,  "you  are 
forty-five,  you  are  forty -five,"  came  down  on  the 
roof  with  the  rain. 

"  Look  how  the  roses  are  nodding  in  recognition 
to  the  rain,"  she  said.  "  See,  they  have  gotten  up 
a  flirtation." 

" Silly  sentimentalist,"  I  thought;  but  before  I 
could  make  any  kind  of  reply,  the  old  man  re 
marked: 

"  Yas,  an'  ef  that  yearlin'  ca'f  butts  ernuther  one 
uv  them  bars  down  he'll  do  er  little  flirtin'  hisse'f. 
He'd  ruther  cut  er  few  capers  on  them  thar  flowers, 
er  weeds  I  call  'em,  then  ter  punch  his  mammy 
when  the  milk  won't  come  fast  ernuff." 

"  Why,  papa,  how  you  talk." 

The  old  man  snickered.  "  Used  ter  call  me  dad," 
said  he,  "  till  I  sent  her  ter  er  big — big — oh,  one 
uv  them  big  she  schools  in  Memphis,  an'  now  it's 
papa.  Look  here,  Zudie,  ez  thar  ain't  nobody  else 
on  the  place  ter  do  it,  you  better  scuffle  round  and 
git  us  a  bite  ter  eat,  fur  now  thai  it's  sot  in  it  looks 


AN  HISTORIC  SHELL.  189 

like  this  rain  mout  be  goin'  ter  stay  with  us  some 
little  time." 

I  protested  that  I  didn't  care  for  anything  to  eat, 
but  in  a  moment  the  girl  had  vanished. 

"  Mebbe  you  think  she  kain't  cook,"  said  the  old 
man,  "but  I  jestwanter  tell  you  that  she  ken.  Gals 
ain't  raised  like  they  wuz  befo'  the  war.  Then  a 
gal  that  could  cook  a  good  meal  uv  vidults  wuz 
sniffed  at,  but  it  ain't  thater  way  now." 

After  awhile  the  girl  came  in  and  announced  that 
the  meal  was  ready. 

"  Thar's  soap  an'  water  ef  you  wanter  wash,"  said 
the  old  man.  I  went  to  a  washstand,  and,  in  at 
tempting  to  take  up  a  piece  of  soap,  overturned  the 
dish.  Instantly  the  following  inscription  caught 
my  glance:  "John  Norton,  July  4,  1863."  It  was 
the  shell  'of  the  terrapin  that  I  had  found  under 
the  sullen  brow  of  Vicksburg  twenty-three  years 
before.  I  took  up  the  shell,  and,  pointing  to  the 
inscription,  explained  its  origin.  The  girl,  who 
stood  in  the  doorway,  gazed  with  brightening  eyes 
upon  me,  and,  when  I  had  concluded,  she  said:  "I 
have  also  a  little  story  to  tell.  But  come  and  let 
us  sit  down  to  the  table." 

When  the  girl  had  poured  the  coffee,  and  while, 
it  seemed  to  me,  a  shade  of  tender  recollection  was 
passing  over  her  face,  she  turned  to  me  with  an 
attention,  charming  because  it  was  undivided,  and 
thus  began  her  story: 


140  AN  HISTORIC  SHELL. 

41  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  about  ten  years  of  age, 
I  was  playing  in  the  yard  one  day  when  I  found  a 
terrapin  crawling  through  the  grass.  The  letter 
ing  on  its  back,  though  I  could  hardly  spell  out 
the  inscription,  at  once  claimed  my  interest,  and  I 
brought  the  terrapin  into  the  house.  Mother  read 
the  inscription  and  explained  it  to  me.  Papa 
wanted  me  to  throw  the  '  lazy  thing  *  over  the  fence, 
but  I  insisted  upon  making  a  pet  of  it.  I  kept  it 
in  a  box  and  fed  it  every  day.  After  awhile  we  let 
it  stay  out  in  the  room,  and,  though  this  may  seem 
incredible,  it  soon  learned  to  answer,  in  a  sort  of 
playful  way,  when  we  called  it  by  your  name.  We 
kept  it  nearly  five  years,  and  it  would  have  doubt 
less  been  alive  to-day — for  you  know  terrapins 
never  die  of  old  age — had  it  not  been  for  a  cruel 
tragedy. 

"  One  day  the  terrapin  was  crawling  about  the 
room  in  great  enjoyment  of  its  after-breakfast  stroll. 
The  cat  was  lying  on  the  hearth  asleep.  The 
'Fourth,'  as  we  often  termed  our  pet,  had  made 
friends  with  everything  on  the  place-,  and  had  often 
played  with  the  cat,  but  on  this  day  pussy  was 
morose,  with  a  recurrence  of  all  the  meanness  she 
had  inherited ;  and  when  the  terrapin  approached 
her  she  quickly  seized  its  head  with  her  claws  and 
then,  before  we  could  do  anything,  she  chewed  its 
head  off.  Papa,  or  dad,  as  he  was  then,"  she 


AN  HISTOBIC  SHELL.  141 

added,  with  a  trembling  light  in  her  eyes,  "had 
become  so  much  attached  to  the  terrapin  that  in 
revenge  he  shot  the  cat.  A  few  days  afterward  I 
found  poor  '  Fourth's '  shell  on  the  wash-stand  in 

place  of  a  cracked  saucer  that  we  had  used  for  a 

I A 

soap-dish.     My  story  is  ended." 

We  sat  for  an  hour  or  more  and  speculated  upon 
the  many  and  devious  miles  the  terrapin  had 
crawled  since  I  had  made  its  acquaintance.  When 
I  took  my  leave,  which  I  did  when  the  rain  had 
ceased  falling,  I  promised  to  call  again  at  the  house 
of- Mr.  Craig  (for  such  was  his  name),  but  I  hardly 
think  that  the  promise  was  necessary,  for  Zudie's 
beautiful  face  went  back  to  town  with  me.  I  was 
kept  so  busy  that  I  did  not  see  [my  friends  again 
until  more  than  a  month  had  passed.  Then  I 
called  and  spent  an  all  too  brief,  but  to  me  a 
thrilling,  season.  My  visits  became  more  frequent 
— they  could  not  become  fewer.  Winter  came,  and 
we  walked  beneath  the  leafless  trees.  We  sat  by 
the  roaring  log-fire  and  saw  the  old  man  dozing  in 
a  corner.  Well,  we  are  to  be  married  on  the  Fourth 
of  next  July.  The  terrapin  shell,  ornamented  with 
silver  and  gold,  shall  be  a  wedding  present  to  my 
wife. 


OLD  RACHEL. 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  an  old  field  long  since  "  turned  out"  stood  a 
small  cabin,  surrounded  by  a  thick  growth  of  per 
simmon  trees.  The  place  was  dreary.  To  the 
right  was  a  deep  gully  in  which  the  body  of  a  mur 
dered  man  had  been  found;  to  the  left  was  a 
shallow,  oozy  pond  where  frogs  "bawled"  dismally. 
Old  Rachel  lived  in  the  cabin,  lived  there  alone. 
The  old  woman  was  tall  and  of  ebon  blackness.  She 
was  indeed  a  strange  woman,  so  much  so  that  all  the 
negroes  shunned  her.  It  was  declared  that  the  old 
woman  was  a  witch.  Abram,  the  negro  preacher, 
solemnly  vowed  that  one  stormy  night,  while  he  was 
lost  in  the  woods,  he  saw  old  Rachel  riding  on  a  lo-w 
cloud.  The  old  man  was  doubtless  honest  in  his 
statement,  for,  while  on  his  death  bed,  he  repeated 
the  statement  and  gave  a  few  extra  bits  of  exagger* 
ation  that  had  been  unavoidably  crowded  out  of  the 
original  text. 

Old  Rachel  never  laughed.     Sometimes  she  sang 

M 


144  OLD    RACHEL. 

or  rather  hummed  a  dismal  tune,  and  the  negroes 
declared  that  her  musical  effort  always  preceded 
some  awful  disaster. 

I  lived  a  few  miles  distant  from  old  Rachel's 
cabin.  Of  course,  I  believed  none  of  the  stories 
that  were  told  witL  regard  to  her,  yet  I  must  confess 
that  I  stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  her.  I  had  heard 
her  sing  her  dismal  Bong  and  I  will  own  that  it 
always  caused  a  shiver  of  uneasiness  to  creep  over 
me. 

One  night,  while  returning  on  horseback  from  a 
distant  town,  I  was  overtaken  by  a  violent  storm. 
The  night  was  so  dark  that  I  could  not  keep  in  the 
road,  and  my  horse  was  so  much  frightened  by  the 
rapidly  repeated  peals  of  thunder  and  the  blinding 
flashes  of  lightning  that  I  was  carried  aimlessly 
through  the  woods  After  a  very  long  time,  it 
seemed  to  me,  I  came  to  an  opening.  A  dim  light 
glimmered  in  the  distance  I  hurried  toward  the 
light,  and  not  until  I  had  gone  some  distance  did  I 
realize  that  I  was  approaching  old  Rachel's  cabin. 
I  attempted  to  change  my  course,  but  the  horse, 
attracted  by  the  light,  stubbornly  resisted  my 
effort 

"  All  right,  then,  go  ahead,"  I  remarked.  "Any- 
thing  is  preferable  to  being  out  in  this  awful 
night" 

I  dismounted.     My  horse  jerked  away  from  me 


OLD   RACHEL.  146 

and  galloped  off.  I  tapped  on  the  door.  No 
response.  I  tapped  again.  I  heard  some  one 
moving  about  inside  The  door  was  opened,  and 
old  Eachel  stood  before  me. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  sounded  like 
an  ill-boding  croak.  I  entered  the  house  and  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  fire.  Every  time  I  looked  up 
I  saw  something  that  caused  me  to  shiver.  Kattle- 
snake  skins  and  cat's  paws  were  nailed  to  the  wall. 
The  old  woman  took  a  seat  on  a  black  box  and  nar 
rowly  watched  me.  I  felt  that  she  was  reading  my 
thoughts. 

"  Ter  ain't  afeerd  o'  oJe  Rachel,  is  yer?" 

"No,"  I  replied;  but  she  knew  better,  for  she 
smiled  grimly  and  replied: 

"  Marster,  yer'd  jes'  uz  well  own  up  ter  «le  truf. 
Yer  knows  dat  yer's  afeerd  o'  me.  Eberybody 
'peers  to  be  erfeered  o*  me,  but  cl'ar  ter  goodness,  I 
doan  know  why,  'case  I  neber  done  nobody  no  harm. 
I  reckon  it's  fur  de  same  reason  dat  folks  is  skittish 
o'  de  debil's  hoss.  'Tain't  'case  it  bites,  but  it  looks 
BO  cu'is.  Murstor,  ain't  yer  hongry?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"Wall,  TU  git  yer  sutbin'  ter  eat.  Ole  Eachel 
allus  treats  her  visitors  well,  fur  she  doan  hab  many, 
de  Lawd  knows." 

She  brought  a  diin  of  nicely  cooked  squirrels  and 

some   corn  bread,     My    appetite   surmounted  my 
10 

\ 


146  OLD  BAOHBt. 

fear,  and  taking  a  seat  at  a  table  upon  which  she 
had  spread  a  new  white  cloth,  I  ate  heartily. 

The  storm  continued  to  rage,  and  the  thought  of 
starting  out  afoot  was  not  pleasant.  Old  Rachel 
knew  what  was  passing  in  my  mind. 

"  Marster,  yer  kain't  go  out  agin  ter  night  Dar's 
er  up  stairs  ter  my  house,  an'  I'll  sleep  up  dar  an1 
let  yer  sleep  down  here." 

"  I  don't  want  to  put  you  to  any  inconvenience," 
I  replied.  "  You  better  sleep  in  your  accustomed 
place  and  let  me  sleep  up  stairs." 

•  "  No,  yer  mus'  do  jez'  ez  I  tells  yer.     Dis  is  Mr. 
John  Peterson,  ain't  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  thought  I  knowed  yer." 

Notwithstanding  the  hospitality  with  which  the 
old  woman  treated  me,  I  was  far  from  feeling  com 
fortable  when  I  laid  down  and  tried  to  sleep.  The 
fire  went  out  and  a  damp  chill  pervaded  the  atmos 
phere.  At  last  I  dropped  off  to  sleep,  but  what  a 
sleep!  I  dreamed  that  old  Rachel  had  tied  me 
hand  and  foot.  I  struggled  and  awoke  with  an  out 
cry.  Old  Rachel  was  cooking  breakfast. 

"  Yer  muster  been  dreamin',  raarster?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Dreamin'  'bout  me,  wa'n't  yer?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  dreamed  that  a  horse  was  trying  to 
trample  me  under  his  feet" 


OLD   RACHEL.  147 

She  smiled,  and  I  knew  that  she  did  not  believe 
me. 

"How  do  you  get  your  living?"  I  asked. 
"You've  got  no  garden  and  even  if  you  raised  vege 
tables,  people  would  be  afraid  to  buy  from  you." 

"  Oh,  I  manages,"  she  replied. 

Upon  taking  my  leave,  I  thanked  her  for  the 
kindness  she  had  shown  me,  but  as  I  walked  along 
toward  home,  I  remembered  with  a  shudder  how 
she  had  sat  on  the  black  box,  gazing  at  me. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Two  months  later. — One  night  when  a  full  moon 
made  the  journey  pleasant,  I  was  returning  from 
town.  Shortly  after  coming  within  the  neighbor 
hood  of  old  Eachel's  house,  I  heard  loud  shouts.  I 
spurred  my  horse  and  galloped  in  the  direction  of 
the  tumult.  I  soon  came  upon  a  large  crowd  of 
negroes.  They  were  yelling  and  were  throwing  up 
their  arms  in  wild  gestures.  Old  Kachel,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  stood  in  the  midst  of  them. 

"  What's  the  matter  here?"  I  demanded. 

A  man  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  replied: 

'*  Oh,  we'se  got  her,  sah,  an'  we'se  gwine  ter  use 


148  OLD   BAOHEL. 

her.  Dis  ole  witch,  boss,  is  de  cause  o1  de  sickness 
an'  death  in  dis  heah  community,  an'  we'se  tired  o' 
it,  san.  We  called  a  meetin'  o'  de  cullud  folks  an' 
we  'cided,  sah,  ter  hang  de  ole  hag." 

"  Marster,"  old  Kachel  called  in  an  appealing 
voice,  "  I  ain't  neber  done  dese  folks  no  harm,  an' 
fur  goodness  Bake  doan  let  'em  hurt  me." 

"  You  men  ought  to  have  better  sense  than  this," 
said  I.  "  You  exercise  the  right  of  citizenship,  but 
here  you  are  about  to  commit  a  crime  on  account  of 
superstition.  That  poor,  old  woman  is  not  a  witch, 
and,  as  she  tells  you,  has  never  harmed  either  of 
you.  Untie  her  and  let  her  go." 

"  We  ain't  gwine  ter  do  no  sich  thing,"  replied 
the  leader.  "  She's  done  us  a  powerful  sight  o' 
harm,  an'  we'se  tired,  dat's  whut  we  is.  Ef  we  let's 
her  go  arter  goin'  dis  fur  wid  her,  she  neber  will  lei 
up  on  us  no  mo'.  She'll  kill  all  our  chillun',  an1 
stock,  an'  make  all  de  springs  go  dry." 

"  Old  man,  you  certainly  have  more  sense  than  to 
believe  that." 

"Neber  mine  erbout  de  sense.  I  knows  whut 
facks  is.  I  know  whut  dis  ole  witch  hab  already 
dun.  She  killed  er  calf  fur  me  night  afore  last, 
an'  myse'f  ain't  been  feelin'  well  since  dat  time." 

"  De  Lawd  knows  dat  ef  I  had  sich  power  as  dat 
yer  couldn'  do  nothin'  wid  me,"  replied  old  Rachel. 

"  Look  a  heah,  'ornan,  dar  ain't  no  us'in  yesse'f 


OLD  RACHEL.  149 

sayin*  a  word.  It  am  de  Lawd's  will  dat  we  mus* 
hang  yer,  an'  no  pusson,  white  nor  black,  mus' 
tamper  wid  de  will  o'  de  Lawd."  Then  addressing 
me,  he  added:  "How  do  dis  ole  'oman  make  her 
libin'  ef  she  ain't  er  witch?  She  doan'  do  no 
work,  yet  da  tells  me  dat  she  has  er  plenty  ter  eat; 
and  da  tells  me,  too,  dat  she  kin  call  er  squir'l  down 
outen  er  tree." 

"No,  Ikain't." 

"How  do  yer  git  de  squir'ls,  den?" 

"I  ketches  'em  in  traps." 

"Whar's  yer  traps?" 

"  Scattered  er  roun'  in  de  woods." 

"  Yas,  an'  yesse'f  will  be  scattered  in  de  woods 
putty  soon.  Lem,"  he  added,  speaking  to  a  man 
•Who  stood  near  old  Rachel,  "  put  dat  rope  roun'  her 
naik  an'  fling  one  eend  ober  er  lim'." 

"  Hold  on,"  said  I.  "  You  men  are  about  to  com 
mit  murder,  and  if  you  do,  you  shall  all  suffer 
for  it." 

"  Who's  gwine  ter  make  us  suffer?"  the  leader 
asked. 

"  The  law,"  I  replied. 

"  How  de  law  gwine  ter  know  anything  about 
it?" 

"  I  will  tell  the  authorities." 

"  Yer  mout  not  be  able  ter  tell  so  much  afore  dis 
night's  work  is  ober.  I  hab  heerd  men  talk  an* 


150  OLD  BAOHBL. 

den  I'se  seed  'em  in  er  fix  when  da  couldn'  talk. 
'Twon't  do  ter  crowd  Black  Sam  ergin  de  wall." 

A  dreadful  thought  arose  in  my  mind.  The  des* 
per  ate  negro  intended  to  murder  me.  I  could  not 
save  old  Rachel,  and  I  was  now  keenly  alive  to  the 
necessity  of  saving  myself.  I  was  not  armed,  but 
I  could  possibly  dash  away.  Just  as  this  thought 
entered  my  mind,  Black  Sam  took  hold  of  my  bridle 
rein. 

"  Boss,"  said  he,  "git  down  offen  dis  hoss,  'case  I 
don't  think  dat  yer'll  hab  much  mo'  use  fur  him 
ergin  mawnin'." 

"You  certainly  wouldn't  harm  me,  Sam?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  sardonically  replied.  "  I  won't 
hurt  yer.  Jes'  want  ter  show  yer  dat  it  ain't 
healthy  ter  tamper  wid  er  public  mubement,  sah." 

"Gennermen,"  said  old  Rachel,  "  ef  yer  is  boun' 
ter  hang  me,  do  so,  but  fur  de  Lawd's  sake,  doan 
murder  dat  gennermau.  He  fit  ter  he'p  free  yer, 
an'  is  yer  now  gwine  ter  kill  him?" 

"  Neber  mine  erboutdat,  fur  we woulder  been  freed 
eben  ef  dis  gennerman  neber  had  been  bornd.  He 
wasn't  thinkin'  erbout  us  when  he  wuz  fightin'. 
Sam,  it's  erbout  time  dis  work  wuz  gwine  on." 
.  "  Yas,"  said  Sam,  "it  er  gittin'  er  long  toward  de 
kneecap  o'  de  mawnin'.  We  hates  ter  shet  off  yer 
apmusfere,  Cap'n,  but  den  we  don't  want  da  law  o'  de 
Ian'  ter  come  down  here  wid  his  ban's  full  o'  ropas. 


OLD  RACHEL.  151 

We'se  mighty  onconsarned  folks,  but  dat  woul'  be 
er  little  too  much  fur  us.  Git  offen  dis  boss." 

"Hole  on,  Sam,"  exclaimed  a  powerfully-built 
negro,  who  had,  up  to  this  time,  been  a  silent 
observer.  "  Ter  mussen  hurt  a  ha'r  on  dat  man's 
head,  fur  he's  allus  been  er  frien'  ter  us." 

"He  neber  wuz  no  frien'  ter  me,"  Sam  replied. 

"Tas,  he's  er  frien'  ter  all  o'  us.  Now,  boys, 
lemme  say  a  few  words  ter  yer.  Sam  is  de  leader 
o'  dis  crowd.  Dar  ain't  no  doubt  erbout  dat ;  but  I 
doan  think  dat  it's  right  fur  us  ter  foller  him  too 
fur.  I  wuz  putty  drunk  when  I  went  inter  dis 
thing  ter  night,  but  I'se  gittin'  sorter  sobered  off, 
now.  It  ain't  right  ter  hang  dis  woman,  fur  she 
ain't  done  no  harm ;  an'  ter  tell  yer  de  truf,  I  doan 
b'l'ebe  in  witches  nohow.  Ter  needn'  grit  yer  teef, 
Sam,  fer  yer  knows  Bill — an'  dat's  me — well  er  nuff 
ter  put  faith  in  whut  he  says,  an'  yer  knows,  too, 
dat  he  ain't  afeerd  o'  hell  nur  high  water.  Wall, 
now  dat  dis  fack  am  'stablished,  let  me  say  dat  de 
fust  man  whut  tries  ter  do  any  hangin'  will  git  dis 
heah  hickory  stick  ober  his  head.  Dat's  my  prock- 
lermation,  Sam,  an'  ef  yer  doan  turn  loose  dat  white 
man's  hoss  I'll  gin  yer  er  lick  dat  yer  won't  furgit 
agin  de  sun  rises." 

"  Now,  look  heah,  Dan,  whut's  de  matter  wid 
yer  ?  "  Sam  asked  in  a  whining  voice. 

"Gwine  ter  turn  dat  hoss  er  loose?". 


152  OLD   RACHEL. 

"  Let  us  talk  erbout — " 

Bip.     Sam  dropped.     Bip.     Lem  dropped. 

"  Untie  dat  ole  'oman,"  exclaimed  Dan.  Several 
men  hastened  to  obey  his  command.  "  Now,"  Dan 
added,  "  yer's  bof  free,  and  reckollect  ole  Dan  in  yer 
pr'nrs." 

"  I'se  gwine  home  wid  yer,"  said  old  Rachel  when 
we  had  left  the  mob. 

"All  right." 

"  Let  me  git  up  on  dat  hoss  behind  yer." 

She  seated  herself  behind  me.  "  Now,  sah,"  she 
said.  "I'se  gwine  ter  tell  yer  suthin'.  Er  good 
while  ergo,  one  night,  I  seed  ole  Sam  kill  er  man 
an'  fling  him  inter  de  gully.  He  discovered  me  an' 
tole  me  dat  ef  I  didn'  keep  my  mouf  shet  he  woul' 
kill  me.  Lately  he's  been  er  gettin'  skeerder  an' 
skeerder,  until  ter  night  he  stirred  up  de  niggers 
an*  tried  ter  hang  me.  He  knows  well  er  nuff  how  I 
libs.  He  knows  dat  I  washes  fur  er  fambly  o'  white 
folks." 

The  next  day  I  filed  information  against  old  Sain. 
He  was  in  bed  at  the  time  of  his  arrest,  as  he  had 
not  recovered  from  the  effect  of  the  blow  which  Dan 
had  given  him.  He  was  tried,  convicted  and  hanged. 
Old  Rachel  has  worked  for  my  family  ever  since 
that  time,  and  we  all  agree  that  she  is  the  best  serv 
ant  in  the  land.  Dan  cultivates  my  farm. 


HER  INSPIRATION. 


PEOPLE  throughout  central  Kentucky  were 
charmed  by  a  violin  in  the  hands  of  Carrie  Doyle. 
This  young  girl  was  a  wonder  even  to  her  friends. 
She  possessed  the  truest  of  all  genius — that  genius 
which  is  not  lowered  by  personal  contact.  She  was 
not  beautiful,  but  her  slight  form  was  a  symphony 
of  changing  and  unexpected  graces,  and  her  eyes 
bore  the  deep  richness  of  old  blackberry  cordial. 
She  could  not  remember  when  she  began  to  express, 
with  the  violin,  the  weird  emotions  of  her  childhood. 
An  old  fiddle  which  had  long  been  in  the  house  was 
her  first  exercised  organ  of  speech.  When  she 
grew  up,  when  her  form  had  become  more  and  more 
graceful,  and  when  her  eyes  had  become  deeper  in 
their  richness,  society  scattered  its  artificial  flowers 
about  her,  but,  heeding  not  this  painted  admiration, 
she  devoted  herself  to  the  joy  of  sweet  expression. 

One  night,  in  Louisville,  Miss  Doyle  sat  in  the 
parlor  of  a  hotel,  playing  for  a  circle  of  friends. 
The  weather  was  warm,  and  the  door  was  open.  A 
tall,  roughly-dressed  young  man  came  down  the 

153 


HER   INSPIRATION. 


hallway    ingered  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  and 
then,  with  an  unpulse  which  he  Beemed  unable  to 
overcome,    entered  the  room  and  sat  down      The 
mpany  scowled  upon  the  coarse  intruder,  but  Miss 
>oyle,   after  looking  at  him  carelessly,  turned  to 
ith  a  richer  glow  in  her  eyes.     From  that 
oment  her  music  underwent   a   change      A  few 
moments  ago  it  was  all  heart;  now  it  was  all  BOU! 
e  steadily  advanced  toward  him.     He  sat  gazing 
t  her  with  his  hands  clasped.     The  music  ceased 
e  girl  blushed  and  sat  down.     One  of  the  gentle- 
arose,  and,  addressing  the  intruder,  said: 
This  is  a  private  party,  sir,  and  we  would  there- 
Bern  it  a  favor  if  you  would  retire." 
The  rough-looking  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet 
but  before  he  could  reply  Miss  Doyle  exclaimed- 
'He  must  not  go." 

Hereupon  an  old  maid,  with  elevated  eye-brows 
bragged  her  bony  shoulders,  and  in  a  voice  of 
painful  surprise,  said: 
"W'y,  Carrie!" 

;'No,  he  must  not  go.  He  is  an  inspiration—my 
inspiration,  and  must  remain  here.  What  is  your 
name,  sir?" 

"Jim  Barnes,"  the  man  replied. 
"Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"Up  ther  river.     Come  down  night  afo'  last  on  er 
Sold  the  logs  this  mawnin',  an'  'low  ter  hull 


HER  INSPIRATION.  155 

out  frum  here  agin  dinner  time  ter-morrer.  Fve 
hearn  er  lot  uv  fiddlin'  in  my  life,  but  I  never  hearn 
nothin'  like  this  yere.  Wy,  Sam  Potter  ken  make 
a  fiddle  talk  an'  call  hogs,  an'  I  allus  feel  like  I'm 
shuckin'  co'n  when  he's  a-holt  uv  hit;  but,  Miss, 
you  make  it  sing  er  soft  song,  an'  I  feel  like  I'm  er 
settin'  in  the  shade  whar  ther  willers  air  dippin' 
down  inter  ther  water." 

She  took  up  the  violin  and  began  to  play.  He 
leaned  forward.  Her  eyes  beamed  upon  him. 

The  hour  grew  late.     The  company  arose. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  again,"  said  Miss  Doyle,  as 
she  bade  Barnes  good  night. 

"  Yas,  I  hope  so,"  he  replied.  "  Er  passul  uv  us 
fellers  'lowed  ter  go  out  ter-night  an'  have  er  sort 
uv  drinkin'  jamboree,  but  when  I  hearn  that  fiddle 
er  singin'  er  sweet  song,  w'y,  I  jest  couldn't  budge. 
I  know  I'm  rough,  Miss,  but  the  boys  all  'low  that 
I've  got  er  heart  in  me  bigger'n  er  steer;  an'  I'll 
tell  you  what's  a  fack,  I  can  fling  down  most  ary 
feller  that  fools  with  me.  I  wush  you  could  make 
up  yo'  mind  ter  come  out  in  our  neighborhood  some 
time.  You  mout  have  ter  put  up  with  co'n  bread, 
but  you'd  find  fellers  that  would  throw  back  ther 
years  like  er  mouse  when  you  teched  yo'  fiddle." 

"  Thank  you,"  the  girl  replied.  "  I  should  no 
doubt  very  much  enjoy  ayisit  to  your  neighborhood, 
for  I  am  happiest  when  I  am  among  people  who 


156  HEB  INSPIRATION. 

have  not  caught  from  the  world  the  trick  of  con 
cealing  their  feelings  and  who  love  simple  music 
with  true  devotion.  If  you  should  ever  come  into 
our  neighborhood,  Mr.  Barnes,  please  call  at  our 
house.  We  live  a  few  miles  west  of  Picton,  in  a 
large  stone  house  that  looks  like  a  fort.  Good 
bye." 

When  Barnes  had  gone  the  old  maid,  after  many 
minutes  of  vigorous  fanning,  declared  that  she  was 
surprised  and  shocked.  "  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
it,"  she  said.  "  I  just  could  not  have  believed  that 
you  would  have  established  yourself  upon  such  terms 
of  intimacy  with  a  clodhopper.  Oh,  it's  just  awful, 
and  what  will  your  mother  think?  W'y,  the  great, 
big,  rough  thing!" 

"  Mollie,"  replied  the  violinist,  "  you  do  not  un 
derstand;  you  were  all  cold;  that  man  came  iu  as  a 
ray  of  warm  light.  He  came  as  an  inspiration.  It 
seemed  that  I  could  have  played  on  and  on  in  dreamy 
and  delicious  endlessness.  My  fingers  were  numb 
when  he  came,  but  he  held  up  glowing  coals  and 
warmed  them." 

"Oh,  Carrie,  what  a  silly  little  goose!  How 
thankful  I  am  that  I  did  not  marry  at  your  age.* 


HEE  INSPIRA1IOK.  157 


CHAPTEB  II. 

One  afternoon,  on  a  gallery  shaded  by  vines, 
Carrie  Doyle  eat  gazing  over  a  wheat  field.  The 
quail,  whose  nest  had  been  robbed,  alighted  on  a 
tree,  which  was  not  her  wont,  and  moaned  in  low 
and  heart-broken  "  Bob  White,  Bob  White."  The 
tired  man,  in  hickory  shirt,  tilted  a  jug  at  the  cor 
ner  of  the  fence,  and  a  white  boy  and  his  negro 
playmate  danced  in  glee,  and  then  wrestled  with 
each  other  where  the  stubble  was  rank  and  soft. 

Barnes,  conveying  a  bundle  gn  his  back,  came 
into  the  yard.  No  one  saw  him,  but  he  saw  the 
girl,  and,  with  bashful  loiter,  he  stood  under  a  locust 
tree.  He  put  down  his  bundle,  took  it  up  again, 
and  seemed  to  be  meditating  a  stealthy  withdrawal 
when  Carrie  caught  sight  of  him.  She  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  delight.  He  threw  down  a  bundle 
that  was  heavier  than  his  bundle  of  clothes — he 
threw  down  his  bundle  of  bashf ulness  and  came  for 
ward. 

"  Let  me  get  my  violin,"  she  said.  "  I  have  not 
played  so  well  since  I  saw  you  that  night.  Sit  down. 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  mother  is  a  widow. 
She  is  my  mother  and  yet  she  is  my  child." 


158  HER 

She  brought  her  violin.  The  heart-broken  quail 
lifted  her  head  and  listened.  An  old  maid  came 
down  from  her  room  and  stood  entranced;  an  old 
woman  threw  down  her  cares  and  came  out  upon  the 
gallery.  When  the  music  had  ceased,  Carrie  blush- 
ingly  introduced  Barnes  to  her  mother.  The  young 
man  was  surely  awkward. 

"  'Lowed  I'd  drap  over  this  'er  way  an'  he'p  you 
folks  cut  wheat,"  said  he.  "Like  ter  be  erroun' 
whar  that  gal's  fiddle  is  a  singin'  uvits  sweet  song." 

He  was  told  to  go  to  work,  but  he  remained  after 
the  work  was  completed.  The  old  maid  frowned 
upon  him.  The  mother  did  not  regard  him  with 
much  favor,  but  in  the  evening  when  Carrie  took  up 
her  violin,  they  all  stood  in  admiration  about  him, 
for  they  knew  that  he  inspired  the  girl. 

Several  weeks  elapsed.  One  evening  Carrie  and 
Barnes  sat  alone  under  the  vines.  A  hawk  flew 
past  them,  carrying  in  his  claws  the  quail  that  had 
moaned  over  the  destruction  of  her  home. 

"I  wanter  tell  you  suthin'  an'  I  doan't  hardly 
know  how  ter  tell  yer,"  Barnes  said,  as  he  tore  off  a 
piece  of  morning  glory  vine  and  twisted  it  with  his 
fingers. 

"You  look,  as  you  twist  that  vine,"  replied  the 
girl,  "as  if  you  are  trying  to  thread  the  needle  of 
propriety.  But  I  have  threaded  it.  I  know  what 
you  were  going  to  say ;  you  want  to  tell  me  that  you 


HER   INSPIBATION.  159 

lore  me.  Please  don't.  You  have  told  me  you 
were  from  a  low  family,  that  your  mother  was 
ignorant  and  that  your  father  was  a  criminal. 
Knowing  this  I  can  never  marry  you.  And  aside 
from  all  this,  you  are  ignorant.  You  inspire  me, 
that  is  all." 

"Yes,  I  am  ignurent,"  he  rejoined,  "but  I  ken 
learn.  I  will  go  away  an'  study,  an'  ef  I  come  back 
er  lawyer  ur  er  doctor,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"Yes." 

He  went  away.  Two  years  afterward  he  returned. 
The  old  maid  turned  up  her  nose  when  he  came 
upon  the  gallery. 

The  men  were  cutting  wheat.  A  quail  moaned 
for  the  destruction  of  her  home,  and  a  white  boy 
and  his  negro  playmate  wrestled  where  the  stubble 
was  rank  and  soft.  When  Carrie  saw  him  she 
seized  her  violin.  She  played,  and  her  mother  and 
the  old  maid  stood  as  nations  did  when  Byron 
touched  his  harp — entranced.  The  music  ceased. 
Barnes  and  the  girl  were  alone. 

"Have  you  come  back  an  educated  man?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  have  tried  my  best,  but  I 
kain't  1'arn  nuthin'.  Whenever  I  tuck  up  a  book  I 
couldn't  see  nuthin'  but  you,  an'  I  couldn't  hear 
nuthin'  but  yo'  fiddle." 

"You  bring  inspiration  to  me,"  she  said,  ''and 


160  HEB   IN8PIBATION. 

when  you  go  you  take  it  all  away.  I  can  not  play 
when  you  are  gone.  My  violin  refuses  to  speak 
except  when  under  your  spell." 

"Then  marry  me,  and  we  will  live  like  they  say 
the  angels  does." 

"No,  I  can  not.     You  must  go  away.      Go  now." 

"May  I  come  back?" 

"When  you  have  learned  something — yes." 

He  went  away.  The  next  year  he  came  back. 
When  he  stepped  up  on  the  porch  the  girl,  who  had, 
upon  seeing  him,  caught  up  her  violin,  ran  to  meet 
him. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  cried. 

He  obeyed,  and  the  mother  and  the  old  maid  came 
out  to  hear  the  music.  The  hawk  flew  past  with  a 
quuil.  Hours — hours  that  were  full  of  soul  to  the 
girl — passed  in  thrilling  flight.  The  mother  and 
the  old  niaid  went  back  into  the  house. 

"It  ain't  no  use,"  said  the  young  man;  "  it  ain't 
no  use  er  tall,  fur  I  must  allus  be  ignunt.  1  have 
tried  ter  study;  I  have  got  fellers  to  teach  me,  but  I 
can't  1'arn." 

"  I  can  not  play  without  you,"  she  said.  "My 
violin  is  cross  when  you  are  not  with  me." 

"  Then  be  my  wife." 

"I  will  see  you  to-morrow,"  she  replied. 

They  sat  in  an  old-fashioned  room.  $he  put  her 
violin  aside  and  gazed  at  him. 


HER   INSPIRATION.  161 

"  You  'lowed  you'd  see  me  ter-day." 

"  Yes." 

"An*  will  you  marry  me?" 

"  No." 

"  Because  I'm  low  an  ignunt?" 

"Yes." 

"  Wall,  I'll  leave  you  then  furever." 

"  Good-bye." 

He  went  out  of  the  house.  He  stopped  at  the  gate. 
She  ran  from  the  house,  climbed  up  on  the  fence, 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him ;  then, 
telling  him  to  go,  she  ran  back  into  the  house,  seized 
her  violin  by  the  neck  and  smashed  it  against  the 
wall.  The  old  maid  rushed  into  the  room.  Carrie 
stood  looking  at  the  fragments  of  her  instrument. 
The  old  maid  was  in  tears. 

"  Molly,  why  do  you  weep?  What  is  it  to  you? 
Why  do  you  shed  tears  ?" 

"  Because,"  the  old  maid  replied:  "because  I  love 
that  fool." 


THE  MILL  BOYS. 


I  AM  going  to  tell  a  bit  of  my  own  experience — 
an  experience  that  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  My 
name  has  not  a  single  vine  or  leaf  of  romance  cling 
ing  about  its  sound;  in  short,  my  name  is  Zeb 
Brown.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country,  without 
the  advantages  of  education,  but  by  the  light  of  a 
brush  fire  I  contrived  to  read  a  few  old  books ;  and 
permit  me  to  say  that  a  close  acquaintance  with  a 
few  masterful  books  is  often  better  than  a  more  pre 
tentious  education. 

A  short  time  after  I  had  attained  my  majority, 
which  indeed  was  all  I  did  attain — I  went  over  into 
a  distant  neighborhood  and  began  work  at  a  saw 
mill.  The  owner  of  the  mill— Old  Bill  Plunkett— 
was  a  brusque  olci  fellqw;  and,  so  far  as  books  were 
concerned,  was  about  as  ignorant  a  man  as  I  had 
ever  seen,  except,  possibly,  my  father,  who,  after  the 
extremes!;  effort,  could  not  have  spelled  dog. 

Old  Bill  seemed  to  respect  me,  not  becaupe  I  could 
read  and  write  and  cipher  a  little  upon  a  pinch,  but 


163 


164  THE   MILL   BOYS. 

because  I  was  a  very  strong  and  active  young  fellow 
and  consequently  very  handy  in  rolling  logs. 

One  day  after  I  had  lifted  the  end  of  a  log  which 
had  been  declared  to  be  beyond  the  strength  of  any 
man  in  the  party,  old  Bill  invited  me  to  go  home 
and  take  supper  with  him.  This  was  a  surprise,  for 
he  had  never  shown  so  great  a  preference  to  any  of 
the  other  boys,  holding  himself,  as  he  did,  greatly 
above  them.  I  went.  He  lived  about  two  miles 
from  the  mill,  not  in  a  frame  house  as  you  would 
suppose  from  the  fact  that  he  owned  a  saw-mill,  but 
in  an  old  log  house  daubed  with  clay  and  not  well 
daubed  either.  He  hadn't  much  to  say  as  we  walked 
along  the  road,  and  just  as  soon  as  we  had  entered 
the  house,  instead  of  extending  to  me  the  courtesy 
of  conversation,  he  fell  to  cutting  hame-strings  from 
a  piece  of  leather  which  he  took  down  from  the  clock 
shelf. 

Some  time  elapsed  before  any  one  else  entered  the 
room.  Then,  after  light  footsteps  in  an  adjoining 
room,  there  entered  a  girl.  As  soon  .as  I  saw  her  I 
knew  that  I  must  have  looked  like  a  fool.  What 
could  you  expect  of  a  green  young  fellow  unused  to 
the  society  of  ladies  ?  I  say  what  could  you  expect 
of  such  a  young  fellow  upon  beholding  a  girl  whose 
face  must  have  been  a  pleasant  contemplation  to  the 
creative  god  of  beauty,  and  with  hair — ah,  what 
hair!  Its  silken  threads  flit  across  my  face  now  and 
dim  my  vision. 


THE   MILL   BOYS.  165 

"  Kit,"  said  the  old  man,  squinting  at  his  leather 
to  see  if  he  was  cutting  straight,  "  this  here  is  Zeb 
Brown  what  works  for  me." 

She  dropped  me  a  graceful  courtesy — she  could 
not  have  dropped  another  kind — and  gave  me  a  smile 
that  seemed  to  have  dropped  down  from  the  glorious 
brightness  of  her  hair. 

"  Kit,"  said  the  old  man,  "  Zeb  will  eat  supper 
with  us.  She  ain't  got  no  mother,"  he  added,  turn 
ing  to  me,  "  an'  haster  'tend  ter  every  thing  herse'f." 

Supper  was  soon  announced.  How  well  I  re 
member  that  meal,  and  how  awkwardly  did  I  acquit 
myself.  I  turned  over  a  pitcher  of  buttermilk ;  up 
set  a  molasses  jug  and  dropped  a  plate  of  batter 
cakes  in  my  lap.  Kit  blushed  and  I  knew  she  was 
ashamed  not  of  me,  but  for  me.  The  old  man  burst 
out  laughing.  "  Wh'y,"  said  he,  after  he  had,  with 
the  violence  of  his  outburst,blown  corn-bread  crumbs 
all  over  the  table,"  you  ken  handle  a  pine  log  better 
than  you  ken  a  pancake." 

Blind  old  man.  He  knew  not  the  cause  of  my 
awkwardness. 

After  supper  old  Bill  sat  down  to  grease  his  newly- 
made  hame-strings.  Kit  and  I  naturally  fell  into 
conversation;  no,  not  naturally,  for  the  blood — 
treacherous  fluid — kept  mounting  to  my  face,  and 
my  great  red  hands  kept  getting  in  each  other's 
way.  But  I  managed  to  talk,  especially  when  the 
girl's  cordial  air  had  placed  me  more  at  ease. 


166  THE   MILL   BOYS. 

"  I  have  some  books  that  I  can  lend  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  a  few  very  old  ones  full  of  poetry 
and  songs.  I  had  great  work,  I  know  in  protecting 
one  of  them.  It  was  a  time  when  leather  had  sud 
denly  become  scarce.  Father's  passion  for  hame- 
strings  (here  she  gave  the  old  man  a  glance  of  mis 
chief)  naturally  drove  him  to  my  choice  book, 
bound  in  leather.  He  wanted  the  binding  for 
hame-strings,  and  I  do  believe  that  the  book  would 
have  been  sacrificed  had  I  not  succeeded  in  persuad 
ing  him  that  the  binding  was  not  strong  enough  for 
his  purpose." 

We  had  talked  but  a  little  while  longer  when  the 
old  man  got  up,  put  his  can  of  grease  on  a  shelf, 
washed  his  hands  in  a  pan  in  which  he  had  soaked 
the  leather,  and  remarked: 

"  Wall,  folks,  it's  bed-time.  Kit,  we've  got  ter 
hussle  out  early  in  the  mawnin1.  Zeb,  we've  got  a 
good  deal  o'  sawin'  to  do  to-morrer." 

I  knew  what  this  meant,  and  immediately  took 
my  departure.  The  night  was  beautiful — at  least, 
it  must  have  been.  I  don't  see  how  there  could,  at 
that  time,  have  been  any  other  than  a  beautiful 
night.  The  weather  was  cold,  and  I  don't  know  but 
a  sleet  was  falling,  yet,  above  it  all,  arises  the  fact 
that  to  me  the  night  was  beautiful. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  was  so  handy  at  my  work  the 
next  day,  for  once  old  Bill  cried  out:  "  Look  sharp 
thar,  Zeb,  whut  air  you  studyin'  about?" 


THE  MILL  BOYS.  167 

Blind  old  man.     He  did  not  know. 

I  waited  and  waited  for  the  old  man  to  ask  me  to 
his  house  again,  but  he  did  not.  Any  plow-boy  in 
the  neighborhood  was  welcome  there,  but,  as  I  pre 
viously  remarked,  old  Bill,  with  quite  an  un- 
American  spirit,  I  must  say,  held  himself  greatly 
above  the  boys  who  worked  for  him. 

One  day  the  old  man,  with  great  flurry,  declared 
that  he  had  left  his  pipe  at  home. 

"I  will  go  and  bring  it  for  you!"  I  exclaimed, 
and  without  waiting  to  hear  any  reply,  either  of 
remonstrance  or  agreement,  I  leaped  over  the  low 
rail  fence  that  surrounded  the  mill  yard,  and  set  out 
at  a  brisk  walk  along  the  road  that  wound  among 
the  great  trees.  Was  there  ever  so  long  a  distance  ? 
At  last  I  saw  the  house.  Kit  opened  the  door  for 
me.  She  blushed.  I  wondered  why  a  young  girl 
should  blush  upon  seeing  so  strapping  and  awkward 
a  fellow.  I  told  her  of  my  mission,  and  then  we 
both  began  to  talk  of  the  books  we  both  loved  so 
well.  Ah!  What  is  sweeter,  and  what  can  be 
purer  than  the  uneducated  backwoodsman's  love  of 
books  ?  I  suddenly  thought  of  the  long  time  I  was 
staying,  and  sprang  to  my  feet.  As  I  hurried  along 
the  road  a  sweet  remembrance  came  to  me.  It  was 
that  Kit  and  I  should  meet  the  next  Sunday  at  a 
place  which  we  had  appointed. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  mill  the  old  man,  pretty 


168  THE    MILL   BOYS. 

angry  he  was,  too,  demanded  the  reason  why  I  had 
staid  so  long. 

"I  came  upon  a  man  whose  wagon  had  broken 
down  in  the  road,"  I  replied,  "and  helped  him  to 
mend  it." 

What  a  lie — yes,  what  a  pardonable  lie. 

The  cold  frown  of  winter  was  softened  into  the 
warm  smile  of  spring.  Kit  and  I  had  often  met. 
She  had  promised  to  be  my  wife — I  had  held  her  in 
my  arms.  Old  Bill  suspected  nothing ;  at  least  he 
said  nothing,  but  I  knew  that  in  his  ignorance  he 
would  not  consent  to  our  marriage.  One  day  when 
I  met  Kit  in  the  woods  I  found  her  much  excited. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  angel?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  something  awful  has  happened,"  she  replied. 
"  Father  found  the  last  letter  you  sent  to  me  and 
got  some  one  to  read  it  to  him.  He  didn't  say  any 
thing,  but  a  terrible  light  shone  in  his  eyes." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  little  girl,"  I  said.  "  He  likes 
me,  I  think,  and  when  he  sees  that  we  are  deter 
mined  he  will  give  in.  There,  now,  don't  be 
afraid." 

I  went  to  the  mill  as  usual  the  next  day.  The 
old  man  had  not  arrived.  I  did  not  dread  his  com 
ing.  Love  had  made  me  brave.  He  came  after 
awhile.  He  walked  straight  up  to  me. 

"  Good  morning,"  I  said. 

Great  God,  he  shot  me! 


THE   MILL   BOYS.  169 

Weeks  passed  before  I  knew  anything.  I  lay  in 
a  little  cabin  where  I  boarded.  Winter  came,  and 
I  grew  able  to  walk  about  the  room.  I  had  heard 
that  Kit  was  a  closely  confined  prisoner.  One 
night,  the  night  before  Christmas,  there  came  a  vio 
lent  knock  at  my  door.  I  opened  the  door  and  stag 
gered  back.  It  was  old  Bill. 

"  Kit  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  I  brought  the 
wagon.  Come." 

I  went  with  him.  Neither  of  us  spoke.  When 
we  reached  the  house  I  could  hardly  mount  the 
door-step.  I  went  in.  There  was  Kit  lying  on  a 
bed.  Oh,  what  a  change !  I  sank  upon  my  knees 
at  the  bed-side,  and  tried  to  take  her  wasted  hands, 
but  she  wound  her  arms  about  my  neck.  My  face 
lay  upon  the  glorious  hair  from  which  the  smile, 
when  I  first  saw  her,  had  seemed  to  fall. 

"  Angel,"  I  whispered. 

She  pressed  me  closer. 

"  Angel,"  I  whispered. 

Closer  she  pressed  me — closer,  closer,  and  then 
the  pressure  was  gone — the  arms  fell.  I  don't 
know  how  long  I  knelt  there,  but  when  I  lifted  my 
head  the  sunlight  of  a  glorious  morning  streamed 
through  the  window.  Just  then  a  man  entered. 
"  Look  here,"  he  said,  opening  the  door.  I  looked 
out  and  saw  old  Bill  hanging  from  a  tree. 

"  The  mill  boys,"  the  man  whispered. 


1  CHICAGO  MAN. 


CHAPTER  L 

CYRUS  "W.  HIGGLEGAQ,  connected  with  the  hard 
ware  firm  of  J\  W.  Ringleoup  &  Co.,  Chicago,  is 
a  tnan  of  unintentional  eccentricity.  I  say  unin 
tentional,  because  I  have  noticed  that  the  majority 
of  men  whom  we  term  eccentric,  are  not  only 
wide-awake  to  their  own  peculiarities,  but  seem 
to  be  ever  cultivating  them  to  a  higher  state  of 
oddity.  Higglegag's  strangeness  —  a  rude  remark 
or  brusque  action  —  appeared  to  spring  from  a 
sort  of  nervousness  that  at  times  came  upon  him. 
Not  long  ago  he  made  a  business  visit  to  a  south 
ern  town,  one  of  those  delightful  places  that  has 
reached  contented  old  age  —  a  town  in  whose  sub 
urbs  a  dove  softly  coos  above  an  old  negro,  who 
dozes  in  the  shade  —  where  the  lolling  dog  is 
almost  too  lazy  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the 
sprinkling-cart. 

Higglegag  strolled  along  the  street.  He  had 
one  of  his  nervous  fits,  but  would  have  resented 

171 


172  A  CHICAGO  MAN. 

an  insinuation  that  he  might  possibly  be  eccentric. 
He  met  a  young  woman  whom  he  had  for  some 
time  been  watching,  just  as  another  woman  had 
passed. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Higglegag,  addressing  the 
young  woman. 

"What?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  say  that  I  knew  it." 

"Knew  what,  sir?" 

"  Knew  that  you  were  going  to  look  round  to 
see  how  that  woman  was  dressed.  Made  a  bet 
with  myself  just  now  that  you  would.  It  'B  devil 
ish  annoying,  I  assure  you." 

The  young  woman  flew  into  a  rage.  "  You  are 
not  a  gentleman,  sir!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Then  why  don't  you  run  along?  Why  do  you 
stand  here  and  talk  to  a  man  who  is  not  a  gentle 
man?  A  city  girl  would  have  been  half  way  home 
by  this  time;  but  you  village  belles  never  lose 
an  opportunity  of  talking  to  a  man." 

The  young  woman's  eyes  blazed.  "  If  I  knew 
your  name  and  the  place  where  you  are  stop 
ping,"  she  said,  her  voice  wavering  with  anger, 
"  my  brother  would  call  on  you." 

"  Here  'B  my  card,  Miss  —  Miss  at  a  venture, 
understand,  for  you  may  be  the  widow  of  a  man 
who  lost  his  life  in  the  defense  of  the  honor  of 
his  horse.  I  am  holding  forth,  at  that '  hostelry 


A   CHICAGO   MAN.  173 

of  indigestion  known  as  the  Simmons  house.  If 
you  will  excuse  me  I  will  proceed." 

She  took  the  card,  glared  at  him;  and,  on  the 
springing  feet  of  rage,  hurried  away.  Several 
hours  later,  while  Higglegag  was  sitting  in  his 
room,  there  came  a  knock  at  his  door. 

"  Coma  in." 

A  tall,  strongly-formed  young  man  entered.  He 
glanced  at  a  card  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
looked  up  and  asked: 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Cyrus  W.  Higglegag?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  of  the  firm  of  F.  W.  Ringleoup  & 
Co.,  hardware  dealers,  of  Chicago,  that  are  pre 
pared  to  undersell  anybody  in  the  market.  Sit 
down." 

"  I  did  not  come  for  the  purpose  of  sitting 
down,  sir.  I " 

"  Just  as  cheap  as  standing  up,  as  the  barnyard 
wit  would  say." 

"  I  have  come,  sir,  to  demand  an  explanation. 
My  sister  informs  me  that  you  insulted  her,  and, 
by-  -" 

"  I  don't  think  that  I  am  acquainted  with  your 
sister,  sir.  Sit  down." 

"I  will  not  sit  down,  damn  you!  My  sister 
informs  me  that  you  stopped  her  on  the  street, 
and " 

"  What  is  her  name,  please?" 


114:  A   CHICAGO   MAN. 

"  My  name,  sir,  is  Norwood  Hampton." 

"  Are  you  related  to  the  Hamptons  of  Ken 
tucky?  I  sold  old  Major  Hampton  a  bill  of  goods 
some  time  ago.  Tall  old  fellow,  slightly  bald,  but 
as  hospitable  as  the  lighthouse-keeper  of  fiction, 
and  as  brave  as  —  well,  as  a  gentleman.  I  take 
it  that  all  gentlemen  are  brave.  Sit  down." 

Mr.  Hampton  glared  savagely  at  Higglegag, 
while  one  hand  fumbled  ominously  under  the 
tail  of  his  coat. 

"  I  am  tempted,  without  further  ado,  to  shoot 
your  head  off.  You  are  a  low-minded,  cowardly 
wretch " 

"  Say  —  hold  on  a  minute  —  just  a  minute,  and 
if  I  don't  make  every  thing  satisfactory,  off  goes 
my  head.  In  a  case  of  this  kind  a  man  never 
regrets  listening  patiently  to  an  explanation." 

"  Proceed;  but  be  brief." 

"  All  right,  but  you  must  not  fly  off  if  I  don't 
talk  to  suit  you  at  first.  I  have  always  under 
stood  that  southern  gentlemen  have  a  fine  appre 
ciation  of  humor,  and  I  sincerely  wish  that  you 
may  give  play  to  a  little  of  that  admirable  quality 
which  I  know  you  must  have  inherited.  Without 
humor  there  could  be  no  high  state  of  civiliza 
tion.  The  savage  frowns;  the  philosopher  laughs. 
Now,  Mr.  Hampton,  if  you  could  but  realize  my 
situation,  I  know  that  you  could  not  help  but 


A  CHICAGO   MAN.  175 

smile.  Here  you  are,  demanding  an  explanation 
relative  to  an  insult  which  you  say  that  I  have 
placed  upon  your  sister,  and  here  I  am,  a  man 
who  —  many  a  gentleman  in  Chicago  will  tell  you 
—  never  was  known  to  be  guilty  of/  an  intentional 
wrong.  It  has  been  said  that  I  am  at  times 
peculiar,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  haven't  begun 
to  believe  it.  This  morning,  while  strolling  along 
your  main  street,  which  I  must  say  is  very  quiet, 
I  saw  a  —  pardon  me  —  saw  a  handsome  young 
lady  approaching;  and,  looking  back,  I  saw  a 
woman  was  overtaking  me.  4  Now,'  I  mused,  '  I 
shall  see  an  exhibition  of  feminine  peculiarity. 
When  those  women  pass,  the  young  one  will  look 
back  to  see  how  the  other  one  is  dressed,  to  see 
if  she  can  not  detect  some  outrageous  incongruity 
in  the  way  her  clothes  hang.  The  other  woman 
may  also  look  around,  but  I  am  betting  on  the 
younger  one.'  Well,  sir,  the  younger  one  did 
turn  around,  just  as  I  expected;  and,  I  don't  know 
why  —  but  surely  with  no  evil  intentions  —  I  spoke 
to  her.  I  don't  remember  exactly  what  I  said; 
it  may  have  been  insolent,  but  —  well,  now  here  — 
suppose  that  men  were  to  turn  round  to  criticise 
the  hanging  of  each  other's  pantaloons;  wouldn't 
it  warrant  any  woman  in  speaking  to  us  of  the 
disgraceful  practice?" 

Hampton  sat  down.     After  a  few  moments,  he 
said:   "  The  affair  is  ridiculous." 


176  A  CHICAGO  MAN. 

"  Of  course  it  is." 

"  While  you  did  not  mean  any  insult,  Mr.  Higgle- 
gag,  you  should  not  have  addressed  her,  even  thougk 
your  remarks  had  been  pleasant." 

"  You  are  right,  Mr.  Hampton ;  no  one  can  deny 
that.  I  am  sorry  now,  but  the  deepest  threats  of 
direst  consequences  would  not  have  prevented  ma 
from  speaking  to  her  at  the  time.  Ever  in  Chicago  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Greatest  commercial  achievement  the  age  has 
seen.  Why,  sir,  there's  nothing  that  Chicago  will 
not  undertake.  And  do  you  know  what  has  made 
that  town  ?  The  municipal  patriotism,  if  I  may  use 
such  a  phrase,  of  her  people.  A  Chicago  man  may 
not  have  time  to  talk  to  you  about  himself  or  his 
father,  but  he  will  stand  bareheaded  in  the  rain  and 
talk  to  you  about  Chicago.  That's  the  way  to  make 
a  town.  Talk  it  up;  never  let  the  subject  get  cold. 
In  business  here,  Mr.  Hampton  ?  " 

"  Yes,  agricultural  implements." 

41  Never  handled  the  Stagwell  plow,  have  you?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Our  firm  is  manufacturing  it  now.  The  Michigan, 
Ohio  and  Illinois  farmers  are  delighted  with  it. 
There  has  been  a  great  improvement  in  plows  within 
the  past  few  years — not  a  revolution,  understand,  but 
such  a  reduction  in  price  that  the  old  cast  plow, 
which  has  so  long  been  the  stand-by  of  the  small 


^  A   CHICAGO   MAN.  177 

farms  solely  on  account  of  its  low  price,  is  about  to 
be  driven  from  the  market.  Still  use  a  great  many 
cast  plows  round  here,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  poorer  class  of  farmers." 

"  Ah,  hah !  and  it  seems  that  the  poorer  class  is 
in  the  majority.  Now  here's  a  steel  plow,"  taking 
up  a  catalogue  and  turning  to  a  well-printed  cut, 
"that  we  are  actually  selling  at  two  dollars  and 
Beventy-five  cents.  Just  think  of  it,  two  seventy-five. 
The  farmers  have  never  before  had  such  an  op 
portunity  as  this.  Why,  it's  marvelous — simply 
marvelous!  Good  steel,  hard  oak  wood.  Look  at 
the  shape  of  that  beam.  There's  no  doubt  about  it, 
the  man  who  introduces  this  plow  to  the  farmers  of 
this  state  is  going  to  make  a  fortune.  The  only 
way  to  get  rich,  Mr.  Hampton,  is  to  take  hold  of  a 
good  thing  while  its  new — before  it  has  become 
common  property.  Look  at  Chicago.  Snatches  up 
every  new  invention.  It  used  to  be  that  poor  in 
ventors  were  compelled  to  go  to  Europe  to  get  money 
enough  to  bring  out  their  inventions.  Now  they 
come  to  Chicago.  That  plow,  sir,  for  two  seventy- 
five.  Look  at  the  shape  of  that  mouldboard.  The 
old-fashioned  plow,  you  understand,  turns  the  dirt 
clear  over,  while  this  sets  it  upon  edge,  keeping  the 
soil  comparatively  near  the  surface  where  it  affords 
most  nourishment  to  the  plant.  As  young  and  active 

a  business  man  as  you  are  ought  not  to  take  a  back 
it 


178  A  CHICAGO   MAN. 

seat  for  any  citizen  in  this  town.  Let  me  send  you  a 
few  of  those  plows — say  one  hundred  as  a  starter." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  sell  so  many  ?  "  Hampton 
asked. 

"  What!  not  sell  one  hundred?  I  tell  you  what's 
a  fact,  Hampton,  you  can  run  out  every  otEer  plow 
— no  question  about  it." 

"  Well,  you  may  send  me  one  hundred." 

"  The  northern  farmers  are  delighted  with  this 
plow,  I  tell  you,  and  the  sooner  the  farmer  of  this 
state  follows  the  northern  farmer — now,  here,  the 
cheapness  of  this  implement  places  it  within  arm's- 
length  of  every  negro  farmer  in  this  state.  You 
just  advertise  that  you  sell  the  celebrated  Stagwell 
steel  plow,  manufactured  by  Bingleoup  &  Co.,  of 
Chicago,  and  you  will  see  that  it  will  take  moro  than 
two  hundred  to  stock  the  market  Shall  I  put  you 
down  for  two  hundred?" 

"  Yes,  go  ahead." 

"All  right.  I'll  order  them  shipped  at  once. 
Don't  be  in  a  hurry." 

"  I  must  get  back.  My  place  of  business  is 
down  on  Main  street.  If  you  have  time,  drop  in  and 
see  me." 

"I'll  do  so.  By  the  way,  present  package  of  abject 
apologies  to  your  sister,  please." 

"  I'll  fir  that  all  right" 


A  CHICAGO   MAN.  179 


HAMPTON  entered  a  room  wher£  a  handsome  girl 
sat  musing. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  flashing 
eyes, 

"  I've  returned,"  he  said,  sitting  down. 

"  What  did  yon  do?" 

"  Bought  200  plows  from  him.  Ella,  he'd  make 
any  man  enthusiastic.  He — " 

"  It  it  possible  that  you  have  had  a  business  trans 
action  with  a  man  who  has  grossly  insulted  me  ? 
Oh,  Norwood — "  She  burst  into  tears  and  sprang 
to  her  feet.  "  As  my  father  is  dead,  and  my  brother 
is  no  longer  a  man,  I  must  be  my  own  avenger.  I 
will  call  on  him;  I  will  cowhide  him  as  he  deserves 
to  be!  All  the  Hampton  spirit  is  not  dead!  " 

She  took  down  a  riding  whip,  turned  to  her  brother 
and  said: 

"  Am  I  to  go  alone?" 

"  If  you  go,  yes." 

"Don't  you  feel  like  a  whipped  cur,  Norwood?" 

"  No,  can't  say  that  I  do." 

"Merciful  heavens!  is  it  possible  that  you  are 
laughing  at  me?  I  am  ashamed  of  you;  I  hate 
you;  I — "  She  rushed  from  the  room. 


180  A   CHICAGO   MAN. 

There  came  a  nervous  tapping  at  Higglegag'a 
door. 

"  Come  in." 

Miss  Hampton  entered. 

"  Are  you  the  young  lady  I  saw  this  morning* 
Sit  down." 

"I  have  come,  sir — " 

"  Yes,  I  see.  Your  brother  was  here  just  now, 
and  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  him.  These  tempo 
rary  fits  of  melancholy  are  awful.  All  about  a  girl 
— beautiful  creature;  dead  now.  Oh,  how  I  loved 
her!  Last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  looking  back  at 
me.  Horseran  away  with  her  and  killed  her.  You 
have  come  to  whip  me  ?  Well,  well,  so  be  it.  Oh,  Dora 
Clyde,  Dora  Clyde,  did  I  think — sit  down,  please. 
Pay  no  attention  to  my  rambling  remarks.  To  die 
— to  die  of  love!  There,  put  your  whip  down.  In 
the  night  strange  whisperings  come  to  me — a  breath 
warm  with  love ;  but  the  icy  morning  breaks,  and 
I  see  the  frost's  fantastic  dance-marks  on  the  win 
dow-pane.  Were  you  ever  in  love?" 

"I  fear,  sir,  that  I  have  wronged  you,"  said  Miss 
Hampton.  "  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  suffer 
ing.  You  must  pardon  me.  Good-bye." 

When  Miss  Hampton  returned  home,  her  brother, 
who  was  still  sitting  in  the  room,  looked  up  and 
said: 

"Well" 


A  CHICAGO  MAN.  181 

"  Why,  Norwood,  that  poor  man  is  grieving  him- 
self  to  death  about  a  girl  that  was  killed." 

Hampton  roared. 

"  He  is,  just  as  sure  as  you  live.  I  never  saw 
such  melancholy  in  a  human  being's  eyes." 

"  And  I  never  saw  such  business." 

"  Oh,  you  are  mistaken.  Perhaps  he  talked  to 
you  of  plows  because  he  saw  the  girl  on  a  horse — 
not  exactly  that,  but  probably  he  did  not  know  what 
he  was  saying." 

"  Why,  we  made  an  extensive  trade,  and,  by  the 
way,  he  told  me  to  offer  you  his  apologies." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  If  you  had  told  me  I 
wouldn't  have  gone  to  see  him.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself." 

"  I  rather  like  him,  Ella,  and  I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do.  We'll  invite  him  to  supper  to-morrow 
evening." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  It  wouldn't  seem  ex 
actly  right,  would  it?" 

"  I  think  BO.  The  whele  affair  has  been  BO 
ridiculous  that  anything  would  be  appropriate 
now." 

The  next  morning  Higglegag  called  on  Hampton 
at  the  store,  and,  when  invited  to  supper,  heartily 
agreed  to  come. 

Hampton  and  his  sister  lived  alone  in  an  old  red 
brick  house  almost  covered  with  vines.  There  were 


182  A  CHICAGO   HAN. 

many  shrubs  in  the  yard,  and  along  the  paths 
romance  strolled  hand  in  hand  with  quiet  fancy. 

When  they  sat  down  to  the  table,  Miss  Hampton, 
looking  at  Higglegag  with  an  expression  of  tender- 
est  sympathy,  told  him  that  he  must  make  himself 
perfectly  at  home. 

"  I  shall  make  myself  near  enough  at  home  to 
feel  at  ease,"  he  replied,  "  but  shall  not  be  so  much 
at  home  that  I  may  fail  to  remember  that  it  is  being 
here  and  not  there  to  which  I  am  indebted  for  so 
pleasant  an  evening." 

"  You  are  a  shrewd  flatterer  as  well  as  (glancing 
at  her  brother)  a  sharp  business  man." 

"  All  sharp  business  men,  Miss  Hampton,  are 
shrewd  flatterers,  but  they  are  also  men  who  believe 
that  a  timely  statement  of  an  effective  truth  is  worth 
more  than  a  groundless  compliment." 

She  looked  at  her  brother,  and,  catching  his  mis 
chievous  eyes,  smiled. 

"  The  average  Chicago  man,  I  am  told,"  she  said, 
"does  not  read  many  books." 

"The  average  man,  no  matter  where  you  find  him, 
is  not  devoted  to  books,"  he  replied.  "  The  Chi 
cago  man  may  not  read  many  books,  but  he  thinks 
a  great  deal.  While  some  men  are  worrying  over 
a  theory  advanced  in  a  book,  the  Chicago  man  is 
watching  the  great  kite  of  this  morning's  thought 
and  now's  action — the  daily  newspaper.  To-day  he 


4  CHICAGO   MAN.  183 

sees  exploded  or  verified  the  book- worm  theory  that 
will  be  advanced  next  year." 

"  Do  you  like  poetry,  Mr.  Higglegag?" 

"  Well,  yes,  successful  poetry.  In  fact,  I  like 
anything  that  is  a  success,  and  deplore  everything 
that  is  a  failure." 

"  What  do  you  think  is  the  highest  aim  in  life  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Success  in  any  praiseworthy  undertaking,  to 
make  the  best  possible  living,  to  respect  everything 
that  is  true  and  reject  all  shams." 

The  evening  was  an  enjoyable  one,  but  when 
Higglegag  had  gone  Miss  Hampton  could  not  help 
thinking  that  he  had  lost  much  of  his  air  of  romance. 
While  she  sat  musing  her  brother  said: 

"  He  seems  to  have  forgotten  to  bring  that  melan 
choly  expression  of  eye  along  with  him." 

"  Norwood,  why  would  you  destroy  the  budding 
memory  of  a  pleasant  evening  by  making  such  a 
coarse  remark?" 

"Why  budding  memory  ?" 

"Because  the  event  is  so  recent  that  it  has  not 
had  time  to  unfold  into  a  flower  of  recollection." 

"Humph,  Ella,  he  must  have  impressed  you. 
Pity  he  does  not  add  dry  goods  to  his  line  of  plows." 

"Pity  that  some  one  who  is  strong  enough  does 
not  give  you  a  plow  line,"  she  good  naturedly 
xeplied.  "Wonder  how  long  he  will  be  in  town?" 


184  A  CHICAGO   MAN. 

"Haven't  heard  him  say,  but  until  he  teaches  all 
our  merchants  how  to  become  wealthy,  I  suppose." 

The  next  afternoon,  while  Miss  Hampton  was 
walking  in  the  flower  garden,  Higglegag  came  along 
and  stopped  at  the  fence. 

"Looping  up  nature's  expressions  of  sentiment, 
eh?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Higglegag,  that  is  really  a  poetic 
idea,"  she  replied.  "One  would  hardly  have 
expected  it  from — " 

"A  Chicago  man,"  he  suggested. 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  she  rejoined. 

"You  are  fond  of  flowers,  undoubtedly." 

"Yes,  successful  flowers." 

They  both  laughed,  and  caught  thrilling  glimpses 
of  each  other's  eyes. 

"How  long  do  you  expect  to  remain  in  town?"  she 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,  exactly.  The  house  owes  me  a 
vacation,  and  I  have  written  demanding  it" 

"I  did  not  think  that  Chicago  men  took  vacations." 

"Yes,  they  do  when  they  have  been  successful." 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down?  Brother  will 
be  home  pretty  soon." 

He  went  in,  but  instead  of  sitting  down  strolled 
with  her  in  the  garden;  and,  although  several  hours 
passed  before  Hampton  came,  Higglegag  waited 
until  he  did  come.  In  fact,  he  stayed  until  after 


A  CHICAGO  MAW.  185 

During  the  next  few  weeks  the  Chicago 
man  called,  in  the  sly  opinion  of  Hampton,  with 
sentimental  frequency. 

One  evening  while  Higglegag  and  Miss  Hampton 
were  strolling  along  a.  quiet  and  perfumed  street, 
where  roses,  heavy  with  richness,  hung  over  the 
fences,  the  girl,  with  sudden  and  seemingly  unpre 
meditated  change  of  subject,  remarked: 

"It  may  be  a  painful  memory,  and  perhaps  I  do 
wrong  in  speaking  of  it,  but  you  have  not  told  me 
anything  of—of — that  young  lady." 

"Which  young  lady?" 

"Why,  that  Miss  Dora  Clyde.  Don't  you  remem 
ber  speaking  of  her  the  first  day  I  saw  you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!  that  was  all  put  up.  I  mean  that  it  was 
a  pretense." 

"I  didn't  think  that  you  would  be  so  deceitful." 

"Stood  me  in  hand  to  practice  a  little  deceit  on 
that  occasion."  They  had  reached  Hampton's  gate. 
"I  didn't  want  to  be  whipped  by  the  loveliest  creat 
ure  I — Have  I  offended  you?" 

She  had  quickly  stepped  inside  and  closed  the 
gate,  and  had  turned  her  back  upon  him. 

"I  ask  if  I  have  offended  you?" 

"Are  all  sharp  business  men  shrewd  flatterers?" 
she  asked. 

"Hang  those  formal  expressions.  Ella — By  the 
way,  Hampton,  I — I — hang  itl  I  was  about  to  tell 


186  A  CHICAGO   HAN. 

your  sister  that  I  love  her  and  ask  her  to  be  mj 
wife,  but  your  sudden  appearance — there  she  goes 
Ella,  come  back.  Well,  good-bye." 

He  called  again  the  next  evening. 

"I  ought  not  to  let  you  come  in,"  said  Ella,  when 
she  met  him  at  the  doon 

"Why?" 

"You  know  how  you  talked  last  night." 

"Then  you  are  not  in  sympathy  with  what  I  said?" 

"Not  that,  but  I  didn't  want  you  to  blab  it  so 
everybody  could  hear  it." 

"Ella,"  taking  h3r  hands.  "I  have  been  thinking 
over  this  affair,  and  although  I  love  you  devotedly, 
before  we  can  become  engaged  I  fear  that  the  sac 
rifice  I  shall  require  of  you  will  be  too  much  for 
you." 

"Who  said  that  we  were  to  become  engaged?" 
she  asked. 

"Nobody;  but  you  understand  the  situation,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

•'And  you  will  acknowledge  that  you  love  mef 

"I  cannot  conceal  it.     What  is  the  sacrifice?" 

"I  am  sure  you  can  not  make  it" 

"Yes,  lean.     What  is  it?" 

"You  must  promise—" 

"Well?" 


A  CHICAGO  MAN.  187 

"That  when  you  pass  a  woman  you  will  not  look 
bock  to  see  how  her  dress  hangs." 

They  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh,  and  she  playfully 
boxed  his  ears. 


WITHERED  JOE. 


THERE  was  not  a  man  in  the  Dry  Fork  neighbor 
hood  who  was  not  afraid  of  old  Sam  Peters.  The 
old  fellow's  looks  were  quite  enough  to  frighten  the 
timid,  and  his  violent  exclamations  rarely  failed  to 
make  men  of  nerve  feel  ill  at  ease.  Sam  had  killed 
several  men.  On  one  occasion,  over  at  Slawson's 
bayou,  he  encountered 'a  desperate  fellow  from  Texas. 
They  at  once  recognized  each  other  as  rivals,  and, 
upon  a  pretense  of  having  had  a  former  altercation, 
agreed  to  fight.  The  "  time-honored  "  handkerchief 
method  of  combat  was  adopted;  that  is,  each  con 
testant  should  take  hold,  with  his  teeth,  of  a  corner 
of  the  same  handkerchief,  and  then  fall  to  work 
with  bowie-knives.  It  may,  without  digression,  be 
said  that  this  plan  of  fighting,  long  since  ruled  out 
of  the  most  polite  circles  of  society,  is  rather  dan 
gerous. 

When  a  fellow  named  Collins  had,  with  courteous 
accommodation,  whetted  the  knives  on  his  boot, 
the  sad  discovery  was  made  that  no  one  had  a  hand 
kerchief. 

"  This  is  a  putty  come-off,"  said  Collins.     "  The 

189 


190  WITHERED    JOE. 

idee  uv  losin'  all  this  yere  enspiriten'  'citement  jest 
on  ercount  uv  a  rag  is  a  disgrace  ter  er  civilized 
curmunity.  Hoi'  on  er  minit,  fellers^  I've  got  er 
idee." 

He  took  off  his  wheat-straw  hat,  tore  out  the  cali 
co  lining,  and,  handing  it  to  old  Sam,  remarked: 

"  Thar's  the  necessary  dockyment.  The  diffikilty 
is  at  a  eend.  Chaw  yo'  corners." 

The  men  took  hold.  The  knives  flashed.  The 
man  from  Texas  fell  in  a  dying  condition.  Old  Sam 
staggered  away  severely  wounded. 

There  also  lived  in  the  Dry  Fork  neighborhood  a 
crippled  boy  named  Withered  Joe.  He  was  of  BO 
little  importance  that  scarcely  any  attention  was 
paid  to  him.  His  only  companion  was  a  dog — a 
snaggle-tooth,  wretched  animal  with  one  oye.  The 
cripple  would  often  take  the  dog  in  his  arms  and 
mourn  over  him.  One  night  two  men  were  riding 
along  a  lonely  road.  "Hush!"  said  one  of  them, 
reining  up  his  horse,  "what  curious  noise  is  that?" 

"  Come  on,"  the  other  man  replied.  "  It's  only 
Withered  Joe  whimperin'  over  his  dog  down  thar  in 
the  holler." 

Old  Sam's  outrages  became  so  numerous  that  the 
authorities  decided  to  arrest  him.  The  sheriff  de 
clared  that  it  would  require  twenty  men. 

"  It  makes  no  difference,"  said  the  circuit  judge, 
"he  must  be  arrested." 


WITHBBED  JOE.  191 

The  sheriff  summoned  a  posse.  Old  Sam  was 
easily  found.  He  placed  his  back  against  a  tree, 
drew  his  bowie-knife,  and  said  that  he  didn't  feel 
like  being  arrested. 

"You  wouldn't  kill  your  friends,  would  you?" 
the  sheriff  asked. 

"  Yes,  I'd  kill  a  lamb  if  it  tried  to  arrest  me.  I 
wa'n't  bo'n  ter  be  tuck  up  like  er  stray  hoss." 

"  Sam,  the  people  want  you." 

"  They  kain't  git  me.  Thar  ain't  none  uv  you 
that  want  to  be  killed,  I  reckon." 

"  No,  b'l'eve  not." 

"  Wall,  then,  keep  yo'  distance." 

"  The  man  who  will  rush  on  him  shall  be  the 
next  sheriff  uv  this  county,"  exclaimed  the  leading 
officer. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  do  it,  an'  be  re-elected?" 
some  one  rejoined. 

"Becaz,"  the  sheriff  replied,  "I've  got  a  wife  an' 
chillun  dependin'  on  me." 

"Hello,"  said  a  fellow  named  Collins;  "yonder 
comes  Withered  Joe,  an'  his  snaggle-tooth  dog  ain't 
with  him,  nuther.  That's  strange.  Beckon  he's 
come  after  ole  Sam." 

The  men  shouted,  and  old  Sam,  lifting  his  upper 
lip  till  a  wolf-like  smile  showed  beneath  it,  reached 
out  and  clipped  off  a  red-bud  twig  with  his  knife. 

Withered  Joe  approached.  In  his  hand  he  car 
ried  a  long  knife. 


192  WITHERED   JOE. 

"Hello,  Joe,"  the  sheriff  called,  "have  you 
started  out  ter  cut  a  mess  uv  greens?" 

The  cripple  did  not  reply.  His  eyes,  in  a  sort  of 
dead  set,  were  fixed  on  old  Sam.  He  did  not  stop, 
but  passed  the  circle  of  men. 

"Come  back  here,  fool,"  cried  the  sheriff. 
"  Come  back,  or  he'll  cut  you  in  two." 

He  did  not  stop.  Old  Sam  gazed  at  him  in  angry 
astonishment. 

"  Don't  come  nigh  me,  you  dried-up  crab-apple. 
Don't  come  here,  I  tell  you.  I'll  kill  ydu  like  I 
Would  a  snake." 

The  cripple  walked  straight  ahead.  Old  Sam 
raised  his  knife. 

"  One  mo'  step,"  he  said. 

Another  step.  The  knife  came  down,  but  the 
cripple  shrank,  or  seemed  to  whither  to  one  side ; 
and  then,  with  the  quickness  of  a  cat,  he  plunged 
the  knife  in  old  Sam's  hip.  There  arouse  a  shout. 
The  men  rushed  forward,  seized  old  Sam,  and 
bound  him. 

"You  are  a  man,"  said  the  sheriff,  addressing 
the  cripple.  "  Yo'  great  respeck  fur  the  law  shall 
be  rewarded." 

"  I  ain't  got  no  respeck  fur  ther  law,"  rejoined 
the  cripple,  bursting  into  tears.  "The  feller  killed 
my  dog." 

Two    men    were    riding    along    a    lonely    road. 


WITHERED   JOE.  193 

"Hush!"  said  one  of  them,  reining  up  nis  horse. 
".What  curious  noise  is  that?" 

"  Come  on,"  the  other  one  replied,  "  It's  only 
Whithered  Joe  whimperin'  over  the  grave  uv  his 
dog  down  thar  in  the  holler." 


IN  THE  CUMBERLAND 
MOUNTAINS. 


A  PHYSICIAN  told  Tom  Blake  that  lie  not  only  needed 
a  change  of  scene,  but  that  to  regain  his  health 
he  required  absolute  freedom  from  business  cares. 
"I  would  advise  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "to  get  on  a 
horse  and  ride  away,  no  matter  whither.  Go  to  the 
mountains — shun  the  merest  suggestions  of  civili 
zation,  in  short,  sleep  out  like  a  bear." 

Blake  attempted  to  act  upon  this  advice.  He 
stuffed  a  few  shirts  into  a  pair  of  saddlebags, 
mounted  a  jolting  horse  and  rode  up  into  the 
grandeur  of  mugged  mountain  gorges.  But  to  him 
the  scenery  imparted  no  thrill  of  admiration.  His 
heart  beat  low,  and  his  pulse  quivered  with  a  weak 
ening  flutter.  The  fox  that  in  sudden  alarm  sprang 
across  the  pathway,  the  raccoon  that,  with  awkward 
scramble,  climbed  a  leaning  tree,  called  not  for  a  mo 
mentary  quickening  of  his  blood.  He  was  passing 
through  one  of  the  most  distressing  of  human  trials.. 
He  had  no  disease ;  every  muscle  was  sound.  What, 
then,  was  the  trouble  ?  You  shall  know. 

195 


196  IN  THE   CUMBEBLAND   MOUNTAINS. 

He  lay  at  night  in  a  bank  of  leaves.  Now  every > 
thing  startled  him.  He  trembled  violently  when 
the  sun  went  down.  Once  he  sprang,  with  a  cry  of 
alarm  from  his  bed  of  leaves ;  then  he  lay  down  again, 
ashamed.  The  horse  had  snorted. 

Farther  and  farther  he  went  into  the  wildness  of 
the  mountains.  One  evening  he  came  upon  a  nar 
row  road,  and,  following  it  for  some  distance,  saw  a 
house.  It  was  an  old  inn,  with  a  suggestion  of  the 
brigand  about  it.  He  tied  his  horse  to  a  fence 
made  of  poles  and  went  into  the  house.  There  he 
found  a  man  with  a  parchment  face  and  small,  evil 
eyes,  and  a  woman  who,  on  the  stage,  could  have 
appropriately  taken  the  role  of  hag. 

"Why,  come  in,  sir,  come  in,"  said  the  man, 
getting  up  and  placing  a  chair  for  Blake.  "  Wife 
and  I  have  been  so  lonesome  for  the  last  day  or 
so  that  we  have  been  wishing  somebody  would  come. 
Haven't  we,  Moll?" 

The  woman  removed  a  cob  pipe  from  her  mouth, 
drew  the  back  of  a  skinny  hand  across  her  blue- 
looking  lips,  made  a  noise  like  the  gutteral  croak 
of  an  old  hen  with  the  roup,  and  said,  "Yes." 

"You'll  of  course  stay  all  night  with  us?"  the 
man  remarked.  "We  can't  possibly  allow  you  to 
go  on,  especially  as  we  are  going  to  have  falling 
weather.  Oh,  when  it  comes  to  hospitality,  why 
you'll  find  it  right  here.  I'll  go  out  and  put  up 
your  horse." 


IN   THE   CUMBERLAND   MOUNTAINS.  197 

Blake  entered  no  objections.  His  deplorable  con 
dition  would  have  forced  him  into  a  compliance 
with  almost  any  sort  of  a  proposition.  The  man 
went  out,  put  up  the  horse  and  soon  returned  with 
a  log  of  wood.  "'  The  more  fire  we  have  the  more 
cheerful  it  will  be,"  he  explained.  "  Out  prospect 
ing  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  Blake  answered. 

"Don't  live  nowhere  near  here,  I  reckon?" 

"  No." 

"  How  long  do  you  expect  to  remain  in  this  part 
of  the  country  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

The  old  woman  mumbled  and  then,  with  a  grating 
croak,  said: 

"  He  don't  'pear  willin'  to  tell  much  about  his- 
se'f.  Some  folks  is  mighty  curi's  thater  way." 

"  Never  mind,  Moll,"  the  host  quickly  responded. 
"  It  ain't  quite  time  for  you  to  put  in,  except  in  the 
way  of  getting  us  a  bite  to  eat." 

She  arose,  without  replying,  and  began  prepara 
tions  for  supper. 

"  It  is  a  dull  time  of  year  with  us,"  said  the  host. 
"  It  has  been  about  two  weeks  since  our  last  boarder 
left.  But  I  reckon  business  will  pearten  up  a  little 
when  the  fishing  season  opens." 

Blake  paid  no  attention,  except  when  some  sharp 
and  unexpected  note  in  the  old  man's  voice  produced 
a  tingling  of  the  nerves. 


108  IN  THE   CUMBERLAND   MOUNTAINS. 

Shortly  after  supper,  Blake  declared  his  readiness 
to  go  to  bed.  He  was  shown  into  a  sort  of  shed 
room,  separated  by  a  thin  partition  from  the  room 
which  he  had  just  quitted.  The  old  man  placed  a 
spluttering  caudle  on  the  hearth,  and,  expressing  the 
hope  that  hid  guest  would  pass  a  quiet  and  peaceful 
night,  withdrew. 

Blake  lay  unable  to  sleep.  Once  the  spluttering 
candle  caused  him  to  spring  up  in  bed.  Suddenly 
his  oars,  extremely  sensitive  with  his  nervousness, 
caught  the  sounds  of  a  whispered  conversation. 

"  It  won't  do  to  shed  blood,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  It  won't  do,  for  we  made  a  mighty  narrow  escape 
the  last  time.  It's  impossible  to  get  blood  stains 
out  of  the  house." 

"I  b'l'eve  them  saddlebags  air  full  uv  money," 

the  hag  replied. 

"  I  don't  doubt  that  and  we're  got  to  have  it" 

" How  air  you  goin'  ter  git  it?" 

"  Poison  him.     I  wasn't  a  sort  of  doctor  all  these 

years  for  nothing." 

"  You  never  was  no  doctor  ter  hurt" 

"  But  I'll  be  a  doctor  to-night  to  hurt." 

"How  air  you  goin'  ter  pizen  him  f    Thar  ain't  a 

speck  uv  pizen  on  the  place." 
"Where  is  that  morphine?" 
"  Up  thar  in  the  bottle,  but  will  that  fix  him?" 
"Yes,  and  in  such  a  way  that  nobody  will  suspect 

anything." 


IN   THE   CUMBERLAND   MOUNTAINS.  199 

"  How  are  you  goin'  ter  do  ?  Hold  it  under  his 
nose?" 

"  Hold  it  under  his  foot! "  the  man  contemptuously 
repJied.  "I  am  goitig  to  nlake  him  take  it." 

"How?" 

"  I'll  fix  it." 

"  Then  there  occured  a  whispering  of  which  Blake 
caught  the  following: 

"  Thiilk  that's  ernuff  ?  "  the  woman  asked. 

"  It's  nearly  half  a  teaspoonful.  Enough  to  make 
five  men  sleep  throughout  eternity." 

A  moment  later  the  host  entered  Blake's  room. 
His  manner  was  free  from  embarrassment.  In  one 
hand  he  held  a  glass  containing  water. 

"  Stranger,  I  don't  want  to  disturb  you,  but  it 
occured  to  me  just  now  that  you  looked  as  if  you 
might  be  going  to  have  a  spell  of  sickness,  so  I 
thought  I  would  bring  you  some  medicine.  I  am 
willing  to  help  a  man  but  I  don't  want  him  to  be 
sick  on  my  hands,  I  am  a  doctor,  but  I  don't  pro 
pose  to  keep  a  hospital." 

"  Suppose  I  refuse  to  take  the  medicine?" 

"  Then  you'll  put  me  to  the  trouble  of  pouring  it 
down  you,  that's  all.  I  am  a  mighty  gentle  sort  of 
fellow  as  Jong  as  everything  goes  on  all  right,  but  if 
a  hitch  occurs,  why  I  am  as  rough  as  a  swamp  oak." 

"  Are  you  sure  the  medicine  will  not  hurt  me  ?  " 

"Hurt  you!  Why,  it  will  do  you  good.  Here, 
swallow  it  down." 


200  IN  THE   CUMBERLAND   MOUNTAINS. 

Blake  drank  the  contents  of  the  glass.  The  host 
smiled,  bowed  and  withdrew.  Then  there  followed 
another  whispered  conversation. 

"  Tuck  it  all  right,  did  he?  M 

"  Like  a  lamb.    He'll  be  all  right  in  a  half  hour 

from  now.  " 

During  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  Blake  lay  quietly 
in  bed.  Then  he  got  up,  dressed  himself  noiselessly, 
arranged  the  bed  covers  to  resemble  the  form  of  a 
man,  took  his  saddlebags,  stepped  out  at  a  back  door, 
went  to  the  stable,  saddled  his  horse,  mounted  and 
rode  up  to  a  window  and  looked  into  the  room  which 
he  had  occupied.  Cattle  were  tramping  about  the 
yard,  and  the  noise  made  by  the  horse  attracted  no 
attention.  He  took  a  position  so  that  he  could,  un 
observed,  see  all  that  passed  within  the  room.  The 
" doctor"  and  the  old  woman  soon  entered.  They 
made  no  attempt  to  speak  in  low  tones. 

"  Whar  is  his  saddlebags?"  the  woman  asked. 

"  Under  his  head,  I  reckon.  Snatch  off  the  covers. 
He  won't  wake  up." 

The  old  woman  pulled  off  the  covers  and  uttered  a 
cry  of  surprise.  Blake  tapped  on  the  window  glass. 

"Say,  Dock,"  he  called,  "bring  me  the  rest  of 
that  morphine.  You  see,  I  have  been  a  morphine 
eater  for  a  number  of  years,  but  ani  trying  to  quit 
Your  dose  came  in  pretty  handy,  for  I  was  in  a  bad 
fix.  I  am  all  right  now,  and  am  much  obliged  to 
you.  Good  night" 


IN   THE   CUMBERLAND    MOUNTAINS.  201 

Less  than  a  week  from  that  time  the  "  doctor " 
and  his  wife  were  in  jail,  charged  with  the  murder 
of  a  traveler.  They  were  hanged  at  Greeneville  last 
September. 


THE  WILDCAT  CIRCUIT. 


BANK  weeds  grew  about  the  only  remaining  church 
on  Wildcat  circuit,  and  over  the  door  there  grew  a 
green  saw-brier.  Wild  hogs  slept  in  the  old  log  house, 
and  the  screech-owl,  with  its  nerve-startling  tremulo, 
roosted  under  the  eaves.  Conference  after  conference 
had  attempted  to  reclaim  the  old  church,  for  the 
vines  of  many  fond  memories  were  clinging  about 
it,  but  each  attempt  was  a  failure.  There  had  been 
a  time  when  the  glad  shout  of  the  regenerated  and 
the  thankful  prayer  of  the  sanctified  called  forth  a 
hymn  of  joy  from  the  devout  congregation,  but 
that  time  was  long  ago,  for  boys  who  had  then, 
clinging  to  the  skirts  of  their  excited  mothers,  won 
dered  what  the  commotion  meant,  had  become 
fathers.  The  religious  system,  and  consequently 
the  social  complexion  of  the  neighborhood  had  been 
changed  by  the  war.  The  saintly  brother,  harrassed 
by  guerillas  and  robbed  by  marauders  that  belonged 
to  both  armies,  moved  away,  many  of  them,  and 
those  who  remained  forgot  their  church  relations 
and  finally  became  rough  sneerers  at  the  creed  of 


203 


204  THE  WILDCAT   CIBCUIT. 

which  they  had  once  been  strong  but  gentle  sup 
porters  ;  BO,  many  years  later,  the  uncouth  men  of 
the  Wildcat  circuit  laughed  at  the  efforts  of  con 
ference  and  actually  mistreated  the  preachers  who 
came  among  them. 

Several  weeks  ago,  a  newly  made  preacher,  con 
cerning  whom  there  had  arisen  considerable  discus 
sion  relative  to  the  circuit  to  which  he  should  bo 
sent,  arose  in  conference  and  said: 

"  Brethren,  it  appears  that  somebody  either  wants 
for  himself  or  for  a  friend,  every  place  that  is  sug 
gested  for  me.  Now,  all  I  want  is  a  chance  to  work. 
I  am  not  looking  out  for  a  place  where  they  feed  a 
preacher  on  fried  chicken  and  at  night  tumble  him 
into  a  feather  bed.  I  have  gone  into  this  preaching 
business  with  the  expectation  of  having  a  pretty 
tough  time,  but  I  am  prepared  for  it.  I  was  grad 
uated  with  honors  from  the  College  of  Toughness, 
having  been  editor  of  a  county  paper  duiing  a 
campaign  for  sheriff.  Now,  brethren,  I  am  very 
sorry  to  see  that  there  should  be  any  controversy 
on  my  account,  and  to  show  you  that  I  shall  be 
satisfied — yea,  even  pleased  with  any  assignment — 
I  will  announce  my  determination  of  re-establishing 
the  "Wildcat  circuit." 

The  young  preachers,  given  to  levity,  began  to 
laugh,  but  the  older  ones,  several  of  whom  had 
hoed  the  row  of  experience,  shook  their  heads 
gravely  and  were  serious. 


THE  WILDCAT  CIRCUIT.  205 

"Brother  Gregory,"  said  an  old  man,  "do  we 
understand  you  to  mean  that  you  will  face  a  gang  of 
ruffians  and  attempt  to  plant  the  gospel  in  the  soil 
where  it  once  flourished  but  from  which  it  was 
violently  torn  up  by  the  roots  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  mean.  These  men  may  be 
ruffians,  but  they  will  not  dare  to  use  violence." 

"  They  may  not  use  positive  violence,  Brother 
Gregory,  but  they  know  how  to  apply  a  thousand 
annoyances.  They  make  a  preacher  ridiculous  and 
then  laugh  at  him.  I  went  there  some  time  ago* 
but  I  will  never  go  again." 

A  number  of  the  brethren  strove  to  dissuade 
Brother  Gregory  from  carrying  out  the  plans  of  his 
rash  determination,  but  the  next  day,  the  head  strong 
evangelist  set  out  on  a  journey  to  the  "Wildcat  circuit. 
Without  telling  the  object  of  his  visit  to  the  neighbor 
hood,  he  engaged  board  at  a  house  situated  near  the 
church,  and,  the  next  morning  after  his  arrival,  he 
gave  himself  over  to  the  work  of  clearing  away  the 
weeds  that  grew  about  the  sacred  old  pile  of  logs. 
He  pulled  down  the  green-brier  that  grew  over  the 
door,  washed  with  soap-suds  the  inside  of  the  house, 
and,  after  completing  his  work,  announced  to  a 
number  of  curious  spectators  that  there  would  be 
preaching  the  following  Sunday. 

When  the  time  arrived  the  house  was  well  filled 
with  "sniokerers"  and  scoffers,  but  Brother  Gregory 


206  THE  WILDCAT   CIRCUIT. 

stepped  tip  into  the  oak-slab  pulpit  and  declared 
that  he  had  come  to  preach,  and  that  tlje  privilege 
of  retiring  was  granted  to  any  one  who  did  not  care 
to  hear  him.  '<  I  come  as  a  friend  to  persuade,  and 
not  as  an  enemy  to  coerce,"  said  he.  *'  I  have  come 
here  to  join  you  in  all  your  sympathies,  in  all  your 
sport  and  pastimes." 

"Glad  to  hear  that,"  old  Nick  Dac.y  spoke  up. 
MMight?ly  pleased  ter  know  that  you  air  goin'  ter 
jine  us,  an'  as  this  is  jest  about  our  time  uv  day  ter 
caper  a  little,  w'y,  you  can  fall  in  right  at  once." 

Benches  had  been  removed  from  the  center  of  the 
room,  leaving  an  open  space.  Nick  stepped  into  the 
"  clearing,"  and,  standing  on  his  head,  cracked  his 
heels  together.  The  congregation  shouted  with 
laughter.  The  preacher  came  down  out  of  the  pulpit, 
stood  on  his  head  and  cracked  his  heels  together. 
Old  Nick  got  down  on  all  fours,  galloped  about  the 
open  space  and  yelped  like  a  dog.  "  Ounk,  ounk, 
ounk!"  he  barked. 

The  preacher  got  down  on  all  his  fours  and  gal 
loped  about  with  a  high-keyed  "  ounk,  ounk,  ounk! " 

Old  Nick  lay  down  and  grunted  like  a  hog.  So 
did  Brother  Gregory.  The  people  exchanged  many 
glances  of  amazement. 

"  Say,"  said  Nick. 

"Well,"  the  preacher  answered. 

"You  air  sorter  one  of  the  boys,  ain't  you?*' 


THE   WILDCAT   CIRCUIT.  207 

"  I  told  you  I  had  come  to  join  you  in  your  sports 
and  pastimes.'' 

"I  thought  you  come  to  preach." 

"  So  I  did,  but  I  do  not  intend  to  preach  until 
you  are  all  ready  to  listen." 

"  Do  you  reckon  we  need  preachin'  ter  so  mighty 
bad?" 

"Not  half  so  much  so  as  do  the  people  who  live 
in  the  towns?" 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  and  preach  to  them?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  destroy  my  natural 
manhood  by  talking  to  people  whose  every  aim  is  to 
be  unnatural." 

"  How  are  you  on  the  rassle? '' 

"  I  am  not  an  expert  at  wrestling,  but  if  the  con 
gregation  so  wills  it  I  will  try  you  a  few  falls." 

The  congregation,  with  a  yell,  expressed  an  en 
thusiastic  willingness.  The  wrestling  took  place 
outside,  as  the  puncheon  floor  was  rather  hard.  Old 
Nick  threw  the  preacher,  but  Brother  Gregory,  still 
willing  to  enter  into  the  sympathies  and  to  take  part 
in  all  the  sports  and  pastimes,  declared  his  readiness 
for  another  "  flirt."  The  congregation  cheered  this 
evidence  of  nerve,  and  the  two  men  interlaced  them 
selves  in  a  combination  known  as  the  "Alabama 
stitch." 

"Cut  your  capers,"  said  old  Nick. 

"  Lead  off  with  your  fancy  steps,''  the  preacher 
remarked. 


208  THE   WILDCAT   CIRCUIT. 

This  time  Nick  went  down.  "  Throw  off  the  tie," 
a  justice  of  the  peace  shouted.  "  Give  us  another 
fall." 

"  No,  let  me  make  a  suggestion,"  said  Brother 
Gregory.  "  I  have  entered  into  your  sympathies, 
now  you  enter  mine ;  I  have  joined  your  sports  and 
pastimes,  now  you  join  mine." 

"That  lin't  no  more  than  fair,"  old  Nick 
exclaimed. 

"That's  fair!"  the  congregation  shouted. 

"  Well,  then,  come  inside  now  and  listen  quietly 
to  what  I  have  to  say." 

They  went  in  and  sat  down,  and  now  a  hush  fell 
upon  the  crowd  which,  a  few  moments  before,  had 
been  so  noisy.  "My  dear  friends,"  said  the 
preacher,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  of  a  man  whose  life 
was  tender  and  beautiful,  who  shared  the  sorrow  of 
all  humanity.  He  poured  faith  and  love  into  hearts 
that  were  broken ;  he  plucked  the  evil  glitter  from 
the  eye  of  human  wickedness,  and  in  itn  place  set 
the  warm  glow  of  trust  and  affection.  Do  you  want 
to  hear  about  this  man  ?" 

"Yes,  tell  us!"  the  congregation  shouted. 

Then  the  preacher,  in  words  as  simple  as  the 
prattled  story  of  a  child,  told  them  of  the  Saviour  of 
mankind.  It  was  a  story  that  many  of  them  had 
heard  and  forgotten,  and  the  recollection  came  back 
to  them  like  a  warm  whisper  of  love.  When  the 


THE  WILDCAT  CIRCUIT. 

story  was  finished,  when  a  hymn  had  been  sung, 
the  people  silently  dispersed.  The  next  day  a  hun 
dred  axes  rang  in  the  woods.  The  men  were  get 
ting  out  logs  to  boused  in  the  construction  of  a  new 
church. 


OLD  BILL'S  RECITAL, 


WHEN  Bill  Hempsey  married  Tal  Harwell  there 
was  great  surprise  in  the  Nubbin  ridge  neighbor 
hood.  Bill  was  worthy  of  respect  and  was  respected ; 
he  was  worthy  of  confidence  and  had  been  entrusted 
with  a  county  office,  yet  when  he  married  Tal  Har 
well  there  was  heard,  at  every  turn,  murmurs  of 
astonishment.  Tal  was  a  beautiful  girl,  and  was 
much  younger  than  Bill ;  her  form,  untrained  by 
any  art,  but  with  woods-like  wildness  of  develop 
ment,  was  of  exquisite  grace,  and  her  hair  was  of 
gentle  waviness,  like  the  ripples  of  a  sun-ray  catch 
ing  rivulet.  Handsome  young  fellows,  Ned  Roy- 
ston,  whose  bottom  field  of  corn  is  this  year  the 
finest  in  the  neighborhood,  and  Phil  Hightower, 
who  has  just  built  a  new,  double  log-house,  chinked 
and  daubed,  paid  devoted  court  to  the  beauty,  but 
when  old  Bill  came  along — old  Bill  with  a  scar 
over  one  eye  where  a  steer  kicked  him  years  ago — 
and  asked  her  to  marry  him,  she  shook  off  the  mis 
chievous  airs  of  the  beauty,  took  up  the  serious 

211 


212  OLD  BILL'S  BECITAL. 

expression  of  a  thoughtful  woman  and  consent*  d 
without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

Bill  owned  a  little  old  log-house,  stuck  up  on  the 
side  of  a  hill,  and  though  viewed  from  the  county 
road  it  might  have  seemed  a  dreary  place,  yet  stand 
ing  in  the  back  door,  Bill  could  look  down  and  see 
wild  plum  bushes  bending  over  the  crystal  water  of 
the  creek — could  see  a  wild  meadow  far  down  the 
stream  and  could  hear  the  song  of  the  rain-crow. 

Several  years  passed.  The  gossips  reluctantly 
agreed  that  Bill  and  his  wife  were  happy,  that  is, 
reasonably  happy,  for  the  gossips  never  submit  to  a 
complete  surrender.  One  day  while  Bill  was  away 
from  home  Ned  Boyston  came  to  the  house.  Tal 
came  in  when  she  heard  footsteps,  and  upon  seeing 
the  visitor  stood  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron. 
She  had  been  washing  and  a  babble  of  suds  on  her 
hair,  catching  a  ray  of  light,  flashed  like  a  dia 
mond. 

"  You've  about  forgot  me,  hain't  you  Tal — Miz 
Hempsey?" 

"  No,  how  could  I  forget  you  when  I  see  you  at 
church  nearly  every  Sunday?  Sit  down." 

"  Yes,  you  see  me,"  Ned  replied,  seating  himself, 
"  but  as  you  never  speak  to  me  I  'lowed  that  you 
had  dun  fergot  me." 

"  I  never  forget  a  friend." 

"Much  obleeged.  You  look  tired;  sit  down 
yourae'f.'1 


OLD  BILL'S  BECITAL.  213 

She  sat  down;  Ned  continued: 

"You  do  a  good  deal  of  hard  work,  don't  you?" 

"  No  more  than  any  other  woman,  I  reckon." 

"You  do  more  than  I'd  let  my  wife  do." 

"  Yes,  all  men  talk  that  way  before  they  are  mar 
ried." 

"  And  some  of  them  mean  what  they  say,  Tal — 
or  Miz  Hempsey." 

"  But  the  majority  of  them  do  not." 

"I  know  one  that  does.  Tal,  if  you  had  married 
me  you  never  would  had  to  work  none." 

"  You  let  your  mother  work." 

"  Yes,  but  I  wouldn't  let  you  work.  I  wish  you 
had  married  me,  Tal,  for  I  ain't  been  happy  a  single 
hour  sence  you  told  me  that  you  wouldn't,  not  a 
single  one.  I  uster  be  fonder  of  persimmon  pud- 
din'  than  anybody,  but  I  ain't  oat  narry  one  sence 
you  'lowed  that  you  couldn't  marry  me.  Tell  me, 
Tal,  air  you  happy  ?" 

"  Happy  as  most  women,  I  reckon." 

"But  most  women  ain't  happy." 

"  Mebby  not." 

A  short  silence  followed;  Ned  twisted  his  hat 
round  and  round.  Tal  wiped  her  hands  on  her 
^pron. 

"Tal — you  don't  care  if  I  call  you  Tal,  do  you?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  particular." 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  everybody  call  you  by  your 
first  name,  would  you?  " 


214  OLD  BILL'S  BECITAI* 

"  No." 

"  TaL" 

"  Well." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I've  been  thinkin'  about  ever 
sense  I  saw  you  at  meetin'  last  Sunday?" 

"  How  am  I  to  know  what  you've  been  thinkiu' 
about?  Hardly  know  sometimes  what  I'm  thinkin' 
about  myse'f." 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  what  I've  been  thinkin' 
about,  Tal?" 

She  sat  twisting  her  apron;  a  cat  purred  about 
the  legs  of  her  chair.  A  chicken,  singing  the  lazy 
song  of  "laying  time,"  hopped  up  into  the  doorway. 
"Shoo!"  she  cried.  "The  chickens  are  about  to 
take  the  place." 

"  But  that  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  what  I've 
been  thinkin'  nor  about  you  wantin'  to  know  it.  Do 
you  wanter  know?  " 

"  You  may  tell  me  if  want  to." 

"Sho'  miff?" 

"Yes,  if  it  ain't  bad." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  bad."  He  untwisted  his  hat, 
straightened  it  out  by  pulling  it  down  on  his 
head,  took  it  off,  and,  beginning  to  twist  it  again, 
said: 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  that  you  wa'n't  happy  livin' 
with  a  man  that  don't  'preciate  you — hold  on  now, 
let  me  get  through."  She  had  moved  impatiently. 


OLD  BILL'S  RECITAL.  215 

"Man  that  don't  'predate  you:  and  I've  been 
thinkin'  that  I  would  come  over  here  and — and  ask 
you  to  run  away  with  me.  Wait,  Tal — please  wait." 
She  had  sprung  to  her  feet.  "  Just  listen  to  me  a 
mini!  Folks  uster  think  you  was  happy,  but  they 
know  you  ain't  now.  Tal,  please  wait  a  minute. 
Tal,  for  Gqd's  sake  let  me  explain  myself.  Say, 
wait  just  a  minute.  You  won't  tell  Bill,  will  you? 
Oh,  you  won't  do  that,  I  know.  We  understand  each 
other,  Tal,  don't  we  ?  You  understand  all  my  f oojin' 
and  skylarkin',  don't  you?  Tal,  oh,  Tal—"  She 
was  hastening  down  the  slope  toward  the  wild  plum 
bushes.  *'  Don't  say  anything,"  he  shouted.  "Don't, 
for  if  you  do  there'll  be  trouble." 

"What's  the  matter,  little  girl?"  Bill  asked  that 
evening  as  he  was  eating  his  supper. 

"  Nothin'." 

"You  don't  'pear  to  be  as'bright  as  usual." 

"I  thought  I  was." 

**  But  you  ain't.  Thar's  some  new  calico  in  my 
saddlebags  that'll  make  you  as  putty  a  dress  as  you 
ever  seed.  Got  red  and  yaller  spots  on  it  that 
shines  like  a  sunflower.  Look  here,  little  gal,  thar's 
somethin'  the  matter  with  you  and  you  needn't  say 
thar  ain't.  Come  here  now."  He  shoved  his  chair 
back  from  the  table  and  took  her  upon  his  lap. 
"  You  know  thar's  somethin'  wrong,  now,  and  you 
air  jest  tryin'  to  fool  me.  I  haven't  done  nothin' 
to  Durt  your  feelin'a  Lave  I?1' 


216  OLD  BILL'S  RECITAL. 

"No." 

''Then  what  is  the  matter?  Oh,  don't  cry  that 
way."  She  sobbed  on  his  shoulder.  "  You'll  make 
me  thiiik  that  I  ain't  the  right  sort  of  husband  if 
yon  keep  on.  Mebbe  I  ain't  too.  I'm  gittin'  old 
and  grizzly,  and  I  ain't  good-lookin'  nohow,  while 
you  'pear  to  git  puttier  and  puttier  every  day." 

"Bill,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  "  you  mustn't  talk — you  mustn't  think  that 
way.  You  are  the  best  man  that  ever  lived,  and  if 
you'll  promise  not  to  git  mad  I'll  tell  you  what 
ails  me." 

"Why,  law  me,  child,  I  couldn't  git  mad  if  I 
wanted  to." 

She  told  him  ;  he  sat  for  a  few  moments  in  a 
silence  of  deep  meditation,  and  then,  with  a  bright 
ening  countenance,  said  : 

"  Why,  that  ain't  nothin'  to  git  mad  about,  child. 
It's  all  right  ;  and  let  me  tell  you  that  any  man  after 
seein'  you  a  few  times  is  bound  to  love  you  and  I 
reckon  he  would  be  willin'  to  run  away  with  you. 
Why,  bless  my  life,  I'd  run  away  with  you  in  a 
minit,  er  haw,  haw  !  No,  indeed,  honey,  you  kain't 
blame  the  feller  for  that." 

"And  you  won't  say  anything  to  him  about  it  ?" 

"Law  me,  child,  I'll  never  mention  it  to  him  ; 
never  in  the  world,  so  don't  give  yourself  no  un 
easiness  about  that." 


OLD   BILL'S   RECITAL.  217 

A  chilling  rain  was  falling.  Several  men,  includ 
ing  Ned  Koyston,  were  Bitting  in  Bob  Talbot's 
store. 

"Yander  comes  Bill  Hempsey,"  said  Talbot,  look 
ing  out  Ned  Royston  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"IJelloa,  men  !"  Bill  shouted,  as  he  stepped  up 
into  the  door  and  began  to  stamp  the  mud  off  his 
feet.  "Sorter  saft  outside.  Hi,  Rob  ;  glad  to  see 
you  lookin'  so  well.  Hi,  Ned,  and  hi,  all  hands." 

"  "We're  always  glad  to  see  you,  Bill,"  Ned  spoke 
up,  "  fur  we  know  that  you  allus  fetch  good  humor 
along  with  you.  Don't  make  no  diffunce  how  rainy 
or  how  dry — no  diffunce  whether  the  corn's  clean  or 
in  the  grass,  you  air  allus  the  same." 

"Glad  you  think  so,  Ned." 

"  We  all  jine  him  in  thinkin'  so,"  said  Talbot. 

"  Much  obleeged."  He  stood  leaning  against  the 
counter,  and,  moving  his  hand  carelessly,  touched  a 
rusty  cheese-knife.  "  Bob,  what  do  you  keep  sich  a 
onery-lookin'  knife  as  this,  for  ?  " 

"  Sharp  enough  to  cut  cheese  with,  I  reckon," 
Bob  answered. 

"  Yes,  but  that's  about  all.  Hand  me  that  whet- 
tock  over  thar  and  let  me  whet  the  point.  Blamed 
if  I  haven't  got  to  be  doin'  somethin'  all  the  time. 
Wall,  fellers,  I  seed  suthin'  'tother  week  while  I 
was  down  in  Knoxville  that  laid  over  anything  I 
ever  did  see  before.  I  went  to  a  theatre.  Ever  at 
one,  Ned?" 


218  OLD  BILL'S  RECITAL. 

"No,  don't  b'lieve  I  was." 

"  Wall,  now,  if  you've  ever  been  at  one  you'd 
know  it,"  Bill  replied,  industriously  whetting  the 
point  of  the  knife.  "  Why,  it  knocks  a  school  ex 
hibition  sillier  than  a  scorched  pup.  I  never  did 
see  sich  a  show." 

"Any  hosses  in  it  ?"  Bob  Talbot  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  it  all  tuck  place  in  a  house.  I'll  tell 
you  how  it  was,  "  (still  whetting  the  knife).  "  It  was 
playin',  regular  pertendlike,  but  it  looked  mighty 
natral.  It  'pears  that  a  ruther  old  feller  had  mar 
ried  a  ruther  young  gal  "  (he  put  the  whetstone  on 
the  counter) ;  "  a  powerful  putty  gal,  too.  Wall,  one 
time  when  the  old  feller  wa'n  t  about  the  house,  a 
young  chap  that  had  wanted  to  marry  her  a  good 
while  before,  he  come  in  and  got  to  talkin'  to  her 
and  the  upshot  was  that  he  wantod  her  to  run  away 
with  him." 

"No,"  said  Bob  Talbot. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  old  Bill,  "  wanted  her  to  run 
smack  smooth  away  with  him.  Wall,  she  told  her 
husband,  but  he  sorter  laughed,  he  did,  and  'lowed 
that  he  didn't  blame  the  feller  much.  But  the  fvm 
come  after  this.  The  old  feller — stand  up  here, 
Ned,  and  let  me  show  you.  Hang  it,  stand  up; 
don't  pull  back  like  a  shyin'  hoss.  The  old  feller 
got  him  a  knife  'bout  like  this,  and  he  went  into  a 
room  whar  the  young  feller  was.  Now,  you  stand 


OLD   BILL  S   RECITAL. 

right  thar.  He  walks  in  this  way,  and  neither  one 
of  them  says  a  word,  but  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other  'bout  like  we  are  doin',  but  all  at  once  the  old 
feller  lifts  up  the  knife  this  way  and — thar,  you 
damned  scoundrel!  " 

He  plunged  the  knife  into  Ned  Koyston's  breast 
— buried  the  blade  in  the  fellow's  bosom,  and,  as  he 
pulled  it  out,  while  Royston  lay  on  the  floor,  dead,  he 
turned  to  his  terror-stricken  friends,  and  exclaimed: 

"  He  wanted  my  wife  to  run  away  with  him,  boys! 
If  you  wanter  hang  me,  I'll  tie  the  rope.  You 
Then  good-bye,  and  God  bless  you." 


FIVE  TEARS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  You  are  a  pretty  looking  thing  to  talk  about 
marrying,  Charles.  Oh,  you  are  a  fine  Bpecimen  of 
matrimonial  achievement.  Marry  my  daughter! 
Why,  both  of  you  would  starve  in  less  than  a  year. 
You  are  eighteen  years  old  and  able  to  support  a 
wife,  eh?  Eighteen  years  old,  indeed.  Why,  sir, 
when  I  was  of  that  age  I  no  more  thought  of  marry- 
ing  than  I  thought  of  swallowing  a  tenpenny  nail. 

"It  was  probably  because  you  had  never  loved 
any  one,"  the  young  fellow  replied,  looking  down 
with  an  embarrassed  air. 

"  Loved  any  one!"     The  old  gentleman  blew 
nose.     "Loved  any  one  at  eighteen?    Why,  sir,  ii 
my  father  had  awakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
and  the  belief  that  I  was  in  love  with  some  one  had 
entered  his  mind  he  would  have  hopped  out  of  bed, 
seized  a  board  and  fanned  me  until  I  would  have 
thought  the  tenth  of  January  was  the  Fourth  of 
July.     Loved  any  one!     Why  don't  you  call  up  the 
dogs  and  go  out  and  catch  some  rabbits?     Is  that 


222  FIVE 

your  top  string  hanging  out  of  your  pocket?  Only 
your  handkerchief?  Excuse  me.  My  eyesight  s 
not  so  good  as  it  used  to  be,  but  my  judgment  is  a 
thundering  sight  better.  Love  at  eighteen  ?  Charles, 
of  course  you  are  always  welcome  at  my  house,  and 
I  don't  want  to  hiifry  you  off,  but,  confound  it,  go 
home." 

"  Then  you  say  I  shall  not  marry  Ermance?" 

"  Not  at  the  present  writing,  whose  few  lines  may 
find  you  enjoying  the  same  blessing,  Charles.  I  don't 
know  what  may  occur  in  the  future,  but  I  am  pretty 
sure  of  what  is  happening  now." 

"  Will  you  let  us  be  engaged,  then?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  be  engaged  as  much  as  you  please." 

"May  heaven  bless  you,  sir." 

"  Now,  here,  young  man,  you  are  not  on  the 
stage.  The  fellow  who-  used  to  be  so  good  at  say 
ing  '  May  heaven  bless  you,  sir,'  is  now  working  on 
a  flatboat." 

"  But  I  desire  to  thank  you  for  your  great  kind 
ness." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  right." 

"Ermance  and  I  can  se6  each  other  daily?" 

"  Well,  hardly.  You  must  understand  now  that  I 
want  no  love  making  'round  here.  I  have  a  touch 
of  rheumatism  and  can't  stand  it.  I  am  somewhat 
peculiar  about  my  own  affairs,  for  which  eccentricity 
I  hope  to  be  pardoned.  Ir  you  agree  to  go  away 


FIVE   YEAKS.  22  j 

and  remain  five  years,  why,  at  the  end  of  that  time 
you  may  come  back  and  marry  the  girl.  Do  you 
agree?" 

"  I  suppose  I  must" 

"  "Well,  run  along  then." 

"  I  don't  like  for  you  to  talk  to  me  as  though  I 
were  a  child." 

"  As  though  you  were  a  child,  eh  ?  Well,  rurt 
along,  now.  Ermahce  is  out  in  the  garden  some 
where  giggling.  Find  her,  plight  your  troth  and 
hurry  away.  At  the  end  of  five  years  come  back. 
Kather  severe,  probably,  but  it  is  the  best  trade  we 
can  make  tinder  the  circumstances.  Don't  look 
exactly  right  to  deal  thus  in  connubial  futures — 
there,  now,  don't  blubber.  Why,  you  are  swelling 
up  like  a  toad.  Shut  the  door.  That's  right: 
run  along.*' 

The  above  conversation  occurred  between  Colonel 
Epimenides  Harleyman,  a  well-kncwn  planter  and 
ex-member  of  the  Arkansas  senate,  and  young 
Charles  Wexall,  son  of  a  neighboring  clergyman. 
Ermance,  the  young  lady  in  question,  was  a  half 
frolicsome,  half  sedate  girl.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  she  was  not  beautiful.  She  had  a  thick  mass 
of  yellow  hair,  so  luxuriant  that  her  father  often 
referred  to  her  liead  as  a  patch  of  jute.  She  was  a 
sudden  kind  of  girl.  Sudden  in  all  of  Jier  movements ; 
sudden  in  her  exclamations.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  premeditated  about  her. 


224  f IVE 


CHAPTER  II 

IF  THE  sound  of  footsteps  could  convey  an  im 
pression  of  sorrow,  any  one  hearing  Charles  as  he 
slowly  strode  along  the  garden  walk  must  have 
thought  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  peer  under  the 
rose  bush  where  his  last  hope  was  buried.  Turning 
a  clump  of  lilac  bushes,  he  saw  Ermance  swinging 
on  the  limb  of  an  apple  tree.  Springing  lightly  to 
the  ground,  she  ran  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh,  you  look  so  sad!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Ermance,  I  am  sad." 

"What  did  pa  say?  I've  caught  a  beau,"  she 
broke  off,  plucking  a  dead  branch  of  rose  bush  from 
her  skirt. 

"What  didn't  he  say?  He  said  everything  dis 
couraging.  He  said  that  if  we  want  to  marry  each 
other  we  must  part  for  five  years." 

"Five  years!"  she  exclaimed,  opening  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  five  years,"  he  repeated  sorrowtully. 

"  But  how  can  we  part  for  five  years  if  we  are 
always  together.  There's  a  measuring  worm  on 
your  sleeve.  Oh,  you  are  going  to  get  a  new 
coat" 

%*  Ermance,  this  is  serious.     Of  course  we  can't 


FIVE  YEARS.  225 

part  if  we  are  always  together,  bnt  we  shall  not  be 
together.  He  says  that  I  must  go  away." 

"Go  away!  He  was  joking.  Oh,  your  hat  is  all 
covered  with  spider-webs.  You  must  have  been  up 
in  the  garret." 

"I  am  going  away,  Ermance,  and  have  come  to 
tell  you  good-bye,"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  him. 
"Will  you  love  me  all  these  years?"  Her  head 
sank  on  his  breast.  "  After  all,  we  are  but  children. 
At  the  end  of  five  years  I  will  come  back  and  claim 
you.  Good-bye."  He  kissed  her. 

"Say!"  exclaimed  the  colonel.  The  lovers 
started.  "I  forgot  to  insert  a  very  necessary 
clause.  You  are  not  to  write  to  each  other.  There, 
that's  enough.  I've  got  a  touch  of  rheumatism, 
understand.  Good-bye,  Charles." 

"  I  am  not  gone  yet,  sir." 

"  Shut  the  garden  gate  as  you  go  out,  Charles." 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not  gone." 

"  Take  care  of  yourself."  The  young  man  turned 
away,  and  the  colonel  continued:  " Never  fear,  she'll 
be  true  to  you." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir." 

"  Never  mind.  The  fellow  who  used  to  say  that 
so  well  fell  out  of  the  stable-loft  and  killed  himself. 
Ermance,don't  blubber.  Remember  my  rheumatism." 


226  FIVE   YEARS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FIVE  years  do  not  elapse  every  day,  but  they 
elapse  every  five  years.  A  long  dreary  time  to  anxious 
and  waiting  hearts,  if  they  be  anxious  and  waiting ; 
but  anxiety  has  been  known  to  wear  away  and 
what  was  once  painful  waiting  sometimes  becomes  a 
conditipn  of  easy  endurance.  Charles  returned.  He 
had  seen  much  of  the  world  and  had  collected  a  few 
dollars. 

"  So  you  have  a  lover  at  home,  eh  ?"  a  miner  had 
said  to  him. 

"  Yes,  a  sort  of  lover,"  he  replied.  "  A  good 
enough  country  girl,  easily  surprised  and  somewhat 
verdant.  I  used  to  think  a  great  deal  of  her,  but  I 
was  a  boy,  you  know." 

"Your  old  lover  will  soon  be  home,  won't  he, 
Ermance?"  a  young  lady  asked  of  the  girl  whose 
head  resembled  a  patch  of  jute. 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  why  do  you  refer  to  him  as 
my  lover?" 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  you  were  engaged!" 

"Oh,  we  were,  in  a  childish  sort  of  way,  but  I 
have  put  that  all  aside.  Father  had  more  sense  than 
both  of  us." 


FIVE  IEABS.  227 

Charles  did  not  rush  over  to  the  colonel's  immedi 
ately  after  returning.  Ermance,  when  she  heard 
that  he  had  returned,  went  away  on  a  visit.  The 
young  man  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  He  knew  not 
what  excuse  to  make,  but  one  day,  grasping  all  the 
courage  within  reach,  he  went  over  to  the  colonel's, 
wondering  as  he  went  how  he  could  have  been  so 
foolish  years  ago. 

"Why,  my  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  "I 
am  glad  to  see  you.  You've  got  enough  beard  to 
disguise  an  ordinary  man,  but  you  are  not  ordinary. 
Little  above  fair  to  middlin',  as  the  cotton  men  say." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  colonel.  How's 
your  rheumatism?" 

"  It  got  well  immediately  after  that  garden  scene." 

"  Foolish  children,"  replied  Charles. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"  How  is,  er — Miss  Harleyman." 

"  Quite  well,  I  believe.  She  went  over  to  Eal- 
ston's  a  few  days  ago.  I  sent  the  buggy  after  her 
this  morning.  I  hear  her  now.  Yes,  my  rheumatism 
is  all  right.  First  rate,  for — Ermance,  here  a  minute. 
Do  you  know  this  gentleman?" 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  the  young  lady,  advancing 
without  embarrassment,  and  extending  her  hand. 
"  How  is  your  health,  Mr.  Wexall  ?  " 

"  Never  better,  thank  you." 

"Well,"  said  the  colonel,  "you  must  excuse 


228  FIVE    YEARS. 

as  I  have  business  out  on  the  farm.  Ermance,  oui 
friend  must  stay  to  dinner." 

An  awkward  silence  followed.  Charles  knew  not 
what  to  say  nor  how  to  say  it;  Ermance  was  embar 
rassed  because  she  knew  not  how  to  express  the 
nothing  which  she  had  to  say. 

"Have  you  been  at  home  all  the  time  since  I  saw 
you  last?"  Charles  asked,  after  making  several 
efforts  to  break  the  silence. 

"Oh,  no;  I  spent  three  years  at  a  seminary." 

"Enjoyed  yourself  pretty  well,  I  suppose?" 

"Very  much;  I  soon  became  interested  in  my 
studies." 

Another  embarrassing  silence.  "Ermance — I 
suppose  I  may  call  you  by  that — " 

"Of  course.     We  were  children  together." 

"So  we  were,  and  foolish  children,  too,  doubtless." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  without  hesitation.  "Father 
was  wiser  than  we." 

The  situation  was  no  longer  awkward. 

"I  thought  I  loved  you,  Ermance." 

"And  I  thought  that  I  loved  you." 

"Childish  fancy.  You  don't  know  what  a  heavy 
weight  you  have  lifted  from  my  mind.  I  don't  love 
you." 

"Charles,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  shining  with  fer 
vent  light,  "you  make  me  happy.  I  have  long 
regretted  our  engagement,  and  to  know  that  a  per- 


FIVE   YEARS.  229 

feet  understanding  is  painless  to  you,  thrills  me. 
Let  us  be  friends.  Here's  father." 

"Ah,  hah!"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "Found  that 
some  one  else  had  attended  to  my  business.  Are 
you  folks  still  engaged?" 

"No,"  replied  Charles.  "We  are  friends  but  net 
lovers." 

"Ah,  hah!"  said  the  old  man,  "suppose  I  had 
allowed  you  to  marry?  Don't  you  see  that  a  man 
sometimes  has  more  sense  than  a  boy.  Now,  you 
and  Ermance  are  friends.  If  you  had  married  five 
years  ago,  you  would  now,  in  all  probability,  be 
enemies.  Well,  Charles,  you  need  feel  no  hesitancy 
in  remaining  to  dinner.  We  generally  have  some 
thing  lying  around,  and  you  may  come  over  and  eat 
when  you  feel  like  it.  Why,  Ermance,  I  never  saw 
you  so  happy." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

NEIGHBORLY  visits  were  kept  up  between  the  Har- 
leymans  and  Wexalls.  Charles  and  Ermance  rarely 
referred  to  their  childish  freak  of  affection,  and 
when  they  did  so,  it  was  merely  to  congratulate 
themselves.  "How  many  marriages  result  in  dis 
aster,"  said  Charles,  one  evening  as  he  and  Ermance 


230  FIVE   YEARS. 

walked  in  the  garden.  "Five  years  ago  I  thought 
that  your  father  was  the  cruelest  of  men;  now  I 
think  he  is  one  of  the  wisest." 

"Yes,  he  is  undoubtedly  a  man  of  fine  sense." 

"Did  he  ever  say  anything,  during  my  absence, 
to  dissuade  you  from  our  purpose  ?" 

"No,  he  always  spoke  in  a  way  directly  opposite. 
Often,  at  night,  when  I  went  into  the  library  to 
attend  upon  his  wants — an  office  which  none  but  I 
could  discharge,  he  would  stroke  my  hair  while  I 
sat  on  the  foot-stool,  and  tell  me  of  the  duties  of  a 
wife — how  I  should  always  love  you,  and  how  noble 
you  were.  He  never  made  fun  of  me,  and  at  first, 
when  I  used  to  sit  alone,  and — and — weep,  he  would 
come  to  me  and  tell  me  how  I  was  loved,  and  how 
happy  I  should  be  for  having  won  a  heart  so — so — 
unchangeable." 

"  Ermance,  this  is  the  spot  where  we  stood  fiye 
years  ago." 

"  Yes.     How  chill  the  air  is." 

"I  think  there  will  be  frost  to-night,"  hereplied. 
"  By  the  way,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  going  back  to 
the  mines.  I  long  to  meet  those  strong  and  simple 
fellows.  I  have  become  strangely  attached  to 
them." 

"  When  are  you  going?" 

"  To-morrow." 

"Then  I  know  there  will  bs  frost  to-night" 


PIYE  YEABS.  231 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms.  The  yellow  hair  fell 
over  his  shoulder.  "  Angel,  I  can  not  help  loving 
you.  I  have  struggled  but  in  vain.  Let  us  go  to 
your  father." 


CHAPTEE  V. 

"  COME  in,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  looking  up 
xrom  a  mass  of  papers.  "  I  tell  you,  Charles,  to 
make  anything  out  of  this  cotton  business  requires 
close  figuring.  I  ought  to  have  made  $12,000  last 
year,  but  I  didn't — young  man,  let  me  tell  you  that  I 
didn't." 

"  How  much  did  you  make?" 

"  Only  $11,800,  Charles.  Bad  crop  year.  Sit 
down,  both  of  you.  You  remind  me  of  pictures 
hung  iij  front  of  a  museum." 

"Colonel,  I  have  decided  to  go  back  to  the 
mines." 

"Yes,  well,  of  course.  When  a  man  once  forms  a 
liking  for  that  kind  of  life,  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
break  him  of  it.  Yes,  of  course." 

"But  if  he  were  to  remain  away  five  years  the  at 
tachment  would  be  broken,  wouldn't  it  father?" 
asked  Ermance,  looking  slyly  at  Charles. 

"Well,  dog  my  cats,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the 


232  FIVE   YEARS. 

old  gentleman,  shoving  back  his  chair.  "  It  would 
seem  so  though,  eh ?  Well,  blow  me  up.  What 
put  the  five  years  proposition  into  your  head,  girl?" 

"  Nothing,  only  I  thought  that— that— " 

"Look  here,  is  that  the  way  for  friends  to  do? 
Put  their  arms  around  each  other?  Well,  dog  my 
cats  if  she  hasn't  got  her  jute  patch  all  over  his  face. 
Let  me  get  out  of  here  before  I  have  rheumatism  so 
bad  I  can't  hobble." 

"  Wait,  colonel.  We  are  engaged  again.  It  was 
impossible  for  us  not  to  love — " 

"  We  couldn't  help  it,  father." 

"  And,"  continued  Charles,  "  we  have  decided  to 
marry  at  once." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  wiping  his 
eyes.  "  Of  course.  Bad  cotton  year,  Charles — of 
course — well,  dog  my  cats  I  *' 


A  STRANGE   EXPERIENCE. 


CHAPTEB  I. 

MY  name  —  is  not  Norval,  nor  have  I  ever  in 
any  way  been  associated  with  the  Grampian  hills  — 
but  my  name  is  Oscar  Hockersmith.  You  will  at 
once  perceive  that  there  is  nothing  in  such  a  name, 
but  if  any  man  has  ever  passed  through  an  expe 
rience  similar  to  the  one  which  I  am  going  to 
relate,  he  would  do  me  a  great  kindness  by  at 
once  communicating  with  me. 

One  day  I  arrived  at  Cregmore  —  a  little  old 
town  on  the  upper  Arkansas  river.  Just  after  I 
had  eaten  breakfast  at  a  hotel,  the  proprietor  of 
the  house  came  to  me  and  said  that  as  I  had  no 
baggage  I  would  be  compelled  to  pay  in  advance. 

"Baggage,  indeed!"  I  exclaimed.  "Have  my 
trunk  sent  up,  if  you  please." 

"  You  brought  no  baggage,  sir." 

"  Then  it  has  not  arrived.  It  will  soon  be 
here,  for  I  am  sure  it  arrived.  I  saw  it  delivered 
to  an  expressman  at  the  railroad  station.  I  have 

283 


234:  A   STRANGE   EXPERIENCE. 

no  money  with  me.  I  hope  that  you  appreciate 
my  position,  sir." 

He  doubtfully  shook  his  head  and  walked  away. 
This  annoyed  me  not  a  little,  and  I  wondered  if 
the  fellow  who  had  taken  my  trunk  had  run  away 
with  it.  I  had  no  check,  and  I  knew  that  I  might 
have  trouble  in  recovering  my  property.  Just  as 
I  turned  to  go  out,  an  old  gentleman  whom  I 
suddenly  encountered,  threw  up  his  hands  and 
exclaimed: 

"My  God!" 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  if  I  did  not  know  that  my  son  Norval 
was  dead,  I  would  think  you  were  he.  He  was 
killed  in  the  army." 

He  regarded  me  closely,  and  in  a  quieter  tone 
continued: 

"  I  have  never  before  seen  such  a  resemblance. 
Same  eyes,  nose,  mouth  —  everything.  Will  you 
please  do  an  old  man  a  favor?" 

I  replied  that  I  would  favor  him  in  any  pos 
sible  way. 

"  Then  come  with  me  to  my  house.  I  want 
my  wife  to  see  you." 

I  told  him  of  the  perplexing  situation  in  which 
I  was  placed. 

"Here,  Mr.  Bunch!"  he  exclaimed,  calling  the 
proprietor.  "  Look  at  this  man.  Doesn't  he  look 
exactly  like  my  son  Norval?" 


A  BTBANGE   EXPERIENCE.  285 

"  Exactly,  only  he  is  much  older." 

"Yes;  but  you  must  remember  that  it  is  more 
than  twenty  years  since  Norval  went  into  the 
army.  He  was  killed  at  Antietam.  I  want  you 
to  go  home  with  me.  I  will  stand  good  for  your 
bill.1' 

"  I  feel  under  many  obligations  to  you,  old 
gentleman,  for  I  am  really  in  an  embarrassing 
position.  I  fear  that  fellow  has  stolen  my  trunk; 
but  if  you  will  go  with  me  to  the  town  officer  I 
will  afterward  go  with  you." 

He  agreed,  and  we  called  upon  the  town  mar 
shal,  who,  after  listening  to  my  statement,  looked 
at  me  suspiciously,  and  said: 

"  You  didn't  come  in  on  any  train." 

"  But,  sir,  I  know  I  did.  I  delivered  my  trunk 
to  a  tall  negro  who  walked  with  a  limp,  and  who, 
if  I  remember  correctly,  had  an  impediment  in 
his  speech.  The  trunk  —  and  I  would  know  it 
among  a  thousand  —  is  a  large  one,  covered  with 
black  leather." 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  officer,  "  you  came  up  on  a 
boat,  for  I  saw  you  when  you  got  off;  besides,  you 
could  not  have  come  by  rail,  for  as  there  are  several 
wash-outs  above  and  below  here,  there  has  not  been 
a  train  in  for  two  days." 

This  statement  was  insulting,  yet  I  struggled  to 
conceal  my  resentment.  Police  officers  in  small 


286  A   STRANGE   EXPERIENCE. 

towns  are  generally  narrow-minded,  dogmatic  men, 
and  I  cared  not  to  dispute  him  farther  than  to  reaf 
firm  that  I  came  in  011  the  morning  train.  Then 
turning  to  the  old  gentleman  whose  name  I  had 
learned  was  Metford,  I  announced  my  readiness  to 
accompany  him.  He  had  been  so  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  resemblance  between  his  son 
and  myself,  that  he  had  paid  but  little  attention  to 
the  disparity  of  statements  concerning  the  manner 
of  my  arrival. 

Mr.  Metford  lived  in  an  attractive  old  place,  not 
far  from  the  river.  When  we  entered  the  gate,  a 
woman  came  out  on  the  veranda  and  in  a  moment, 
after  seeing  me,  clasped  her  hands  and  leaned 
against  a  post.  As  we  approached,  she  uttered  a 
shriek  and  sprang  toward  me.  The  old  gentleman, 
gently  taking  hold  of  her,  said: 

"  Come,  Mary,  don't  give  way  to  your  feelings. 
This  is — you  have  not  told  me  your  name,  sir.  Ah, 
yes,"  when  I  had  told  him,  "this  is  Mr.  Oscar 
Hockersmith.  I  wanted  you  to  see  him  on  account 
of  the  perfect  likeness  he  bears  to  Norval.  Come 
in,  sir,"  he  continued,  leading  the  way.  We  entered 
a  comfortably  furnished  room.  The  old  lady  could 
not  keep  her  eyes  off  me. 

"  Poor  Norval,"  she  repeated  over  and  over  again. 
"  Poor  child.  Oh,  sir,  if  I  did  not  know  that  he 
was  killed — oh,  sir,  are  you  not  indeed  he?" 


A  STRANGE  EXPERIENCE.  237 

"Be    quiet,    Mary,"    said    the    old  gentleman. 

'  Don't  be  excited.     Let  us  make  it  pleasant  here 

for  Mr.  Hockersmith,  and  perhaps  he  will  remain 

several  days  with   us.     Tell   us   something   about 

yourself,  Mr.  Hockersmith." 

"I  was  born  in  Richmond,  Va."  I  replied,  "and 
my  parents  died  when  I  was  quite  young.  I  went 
into  the  army  and  was  wounded  by  a  piece  of  shell 
at  Shiloh.  After  the  war  I  went  home,  but  found 
that  the  uncle  with  whom  I  had  lived,  was  reduced 
almost  to  a  penniless  condition.  He  did  not  long 
survive,  and  there  being  nothing  in  Richmond  to 
bind  me  to  the  place,  I  wandered  away  and  have 
never  returned.  I  have  come  to  this  state  to  look 
after  the  land  interest  of  a  corporation,  and,  as  soon 
as  my  business  is  completed,  I  shall  go  back  to  St. 
Louis." 

"  Until  then,"  said  Mrs.  Metford,  "  you  must 
remain  at  our  house.  Although  I  know  that  you 
are  not  our  son,  yet  to  see  you — "  Here  the  poor 
woman  completely  broke  down. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  approaching  her 
and  stroking  her  hair,  "  don't  give  way  to  your  feel 
ing.  I  would  not  have  urged  him  to  come,  but  I 
knew  that  if  I  didn't  you  would  never  forgive  me. 
Don't  give  way,  now." 

She  became  calm,  but  every  time  she  looked  at 
me  I  could  see  her  lip  quiver.  "  What  a  pity  that 


238  A  STBANQE   EXPERIENCE. 

I  am  not  your  son,"  I  mused.  "Any  man,  even 
aside  from  natural  affection,  would  feel  proud  of 
such  a  mother."  I  thought  of  ilic  dead  eon  and  of 
what  a  splendid  home  his  death  had  made  cheerless, 
and  I  almost  wished  that  I  had  told  the  old  couple 
that  I  was  really  their  Norval." 

After  dinner  we  were  sitting  in  the  parlor  when 
there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  front  door.  Mr. 
Metford,  who  answered  the  summons,  soon  returned 
accompanied  by  the  town  marshal.  Approaching 
me,  and  placing  his  ungentle  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
the  marshal  said: 

"  I  want  you." 

"Want  me?"  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  I  want  you." 

"  What  right  have  you  to  want  me?  " 

He  took  out  a  paper  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was 
a  warrant  arresting  me  on  a  charge  of  wilfully  and 
maliciously  deceiving  the  people  .of  Cregmore.  It 
was  useless  to  resist,  and  although  the  old  gentle 
man  and  his  wife  protested  against  such  an  indignity 
being  imposed  on  a  guest  of  their  house,  yet  by  the 
f  eelingless  ruffian  I  was  led  away  and  lodged  in  jail. 


A  STRANGE   EXPEDIENCE.  239 


CHAPTEE  IL 

The  next  day  I  was  arraigned  before  a  justice  of 
the  peace,  who  requested  me  to  make  a  brief  state 
ment  as  to  how  I  came  to  town.  I  did  so,  telling 
him  to  the  best  of  my  recollection.  I  told  him 
about  losing  my  trunk,  and  I  ventured  to  take  to 
task  a  village  that  would  stubbornly  shut  its  eyes 
and  allow  the  perpetration  of  such  outrages.  The 
town  marshal  swore  that  I  did  not  come  by  rail,  that 
no  train  had  come  in  since  two  days  before ;  that  I 
had  come  on  a  steamboat,  the  "  Farmer  Boy,"  and 
that  I  had  no  trunk.  The  captain  of  the  "  Farmer 
Boy,"  a  very  gentlemanly  looking  fellow,  arose  and 
astonished  me  with  the  following  statement: 

"  Just  before  leaving  Little  Kock,  day  before  yes 
terday,  this  man,  who  calls  himself  Hockersmith, 
came  to  me  and  said  that  he  would  like  to  go  up  the 
river  as  far  as  Cregmore ;  that  he  was  employed  by 
a  St.  Louis  land  corporation,  and  that  as  his  bag 
gage  had  somehow  failed  to  arrive  he  was  without 
money,  but  that  if  I  would  let  him  come  up  as  a 
deck  passenger  he  would,  upon  reaching  this  place, 
get  the  money  from  a  friend  and  pay  me.  It's  only 
a  small  amount,  and  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it 


240  A   STRANGE   EXPERIENCE, 

but  for  the  fact  that  the  marshal  came  down  and 
asked  me  about  the  strange  fellow." 

"  What  have  you  to  say  concerning  these  state 
ments?"  asked  the  justice. 

"  Nothing,  only  that  they  are  not  true,"  I  replied. 
"  As  I  tell  you,  I  came  here  by  rail,  arriving  yester 
day  morning." 

"  But  no  train  arrived  yesterday  morning." 

Then  I  became  indignant.  "All  right,  have  it 
your  own  way,"  said  I.  "  One  man  can  not  stand 
up  against  so  many.  If  I  deserve  punishment,  fine 
me,  and  I  will  go  on  the  rock  pile  or  the  convict 
farm  and  work  it  out" 

"  I  don't  exactly  see  how  you  have  violated  the 
law,"  replied  the  magistrate,  looking  at  me  with 
almost  an  expression  of  pity.  "  You  have  not  ob 
tained  money  by  false  pretenses." 

"  So  far  as  his  passage  is  concerned,"  remarked 
the  steamboat  man,  "  I  am  not  anxious.  I  wouldn't 
have  him  punished  for  that." 

The  town  marshal  shifted  and  twisted  himself 
about  in  his  chair.  I  could  see  that  he  did  not  like 
the  change  which  had  come  over  the  court. 

"  Your  honor,"  said  he  "this  man  also  made  false 
statements  to  Mr.  Bunch,  proprietor  of  the  hotel. 
He  obtained  board  under  false  pretenses." 

I  understood  him.  He  would  urge  charges  against 
me  merely  to  defend  his  own  position. 


A  STRANGE  EXPERIENCE.  241 

"  Judge,"  said  a  voice  that  I  knew.  Looking 
round,  I  saw  Mr.  Metford.  Everyone  waited  for 
him  to  speak.  "  I  met  Mr.  Hockersmith  at  the 
hotel  yesterday  morning.  On  account  of  the  won 
derful  resemblance  which  he  bears  to  my  son 
Norval—" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  judge.  "  Poor  Norval,  I  saw 
him  buried." 

"  On  account  of  that  resemblance,"  continued  Mr. 
Metford,  "  I  invited  Mr.  Hockersmith  to  accompany 
me  home.  He  explained  his  embarrassment,  and  I 
told  Mr.  Bunch  that  I  would  stand  good  for  the  bill. 
So,  that  charge  is  wiped  out." 

"  That's  all  very  well,  gentlemen,"  exclaimed  the 
town  marshal,  "but  we  can't  allow  fellows  to  come 
in  this  way.  I  believe  that  a  man  should  be  pun 
ished  for  lying  just  the  same  as  he  ought  to  be  for 
stealing.  That's  my  ticket." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so  courageously," 
rejoined  Mr.  Metford.  "  You  borrowed  $10  of  me 
about  two  months  ago,  and  vowed  that  you  would 
return  the  money  within  a  week.  Yet,  you  have 
failed  to  keep  your  promise.  Yes,  it  is  a  very  good 
idea  to  punish  men  for  lying,  and  now  since  you 
have  reminded  me  of  your  untruthf  ulness,  I  think  it 
would  be  well  to  act  upon  your  conception  of  justice. 
Your  honor,  make  me  out  a  warrant  of  arrest, 


242  A  BTHANGE   EXPERIENCE. 

For  a  time  the  marshal  knew  not  what  to  Bay.  His 
face  grew  red.  "You  all  know  me,"  he  replied. 
"  I  am  not  a  stranger.  I  didn't  come  here  and  try 
to  beat  any  of  yon.  I'll  pay  the  $10;  don't  fret 
about  thai  I  don't  think  it  is  right  to  hop  on  a 
man  that's  trying  to  protect  the  community  against 
fraud.  I've  got  nothing  against  this  fellow,  and 
am  willing  to  see  him  turned  loose." 

11 1  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Mr.  Met- 
ford.  "You  needn't  make  out  the  warrant,  judge. 
"  Well,  Mr.  Hockersmith,"  turning  to  me,  "  as  there 
is  nothing  against  you  here,  yon  will  please  accom 
pany  me  home." 

When  we  went  to  the  house  Mrs.  Metford's  lip 
trembled.  These  old  people  would  not  hear  to  my 
leaving  them,  so  I  remained  all  night.  The  next 
morning  I  awoke  with  a  burning  fever.  Then  I 
went  into  a  state  of  delirium  and  for  several  weeks 
knew  nothing.  When  I  regained  consciousness,  my 
mind  was  so  confused  that  I  could  not  think.  I 
knew  that  I  talked  incoherently,  therefore  I  said  but 
little. 

One  day  while  I  was  sitting  in  my  room,  a  man 
was  shown  up  by  one  of  the  servants.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Metford  were  away  from  home,  having  gone  over  to 
a  neighbor's  house. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  said  the  man. 

"  I  don't  think  that  I  ever  saw  you  before,"  I 
replied. 


A  STEANGE  EXPERIENCE. 

He  looked  at  me  and  smiled  sadly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  I  asked. 

"  I  mean  nothing  offensive.  You  know  Abe 
Catham?" 

"  Never  heard  of  him." 

"  I  am  sorry,  for  I  had  hoped  that  you  would 
recognize  me." 

"  How  can  I  recognize  you,  sir,  when  this  is  the 
first  time  we  have  ever  met?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  muttered  something  which 
sounded  to  me  like  "  poor  fellow."  Then  he  startled 
me  by  saying: 

"  I  have  been  your  keeper  for  years." 

"My  keeper?" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  connected  with  the  Missouri  Insane 
asylum." 

"  I  don't  dispute  your  position  as  keeper,  but  I 
can  assure  you  that  I  have  never  seen  the  institu 
tion.  I  am  a  St.  Louis  land  man." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  something  which  has  just  come 
to  light.  You  were  wounded  at  the  battle  of 
Antietam." 

"  Shiloh." 

"  At  Antietam.  You  and  a  young  Virginian, 
who,  to  some  extent,  resembled  you — a  man  named 
Hockersmith — fell  close  to  each  other.  In  the  report 
of  the  killed  and  wounded,  you  were  put  down  on 
the  dead  list  and  this  man  Hockersmith  was  repoited 


244  A   STRANGE   EXPERIENCE. 

to  be  wounded.  You  had  been  struck  by  a  piece  <  f 
shell  and  was,  upon  recovery  of  the  wound,  found  to 
be  hopelessly  insane.  You  went  to  Richmond,  bin 
your  supposed  relatives  spurned  you,  BO  I  have 
heard;  and,  after  wandering  around,  you  went  to 
Missouri  and  was  placed  in  an  insane  asylum  where 
you  remained  until  a  few  weeks  ago,  when  you 
escaped.  Your  name,  I  have  learned,  is  Norval 
Metford  and  I  have  come  to  tell  your  parents,  after 
satisfying  myself  that  it  is  you — " 

The  room  began  to  turn  around.  The  man's 
voice  sounded  away  off  a  great  distance.  He  seemed 
to  be  shouting,  but  I  could  not  catch  his  words. 
Then  some  one,  dressed  in  red  tight  breeches,  came 
in  and  danced  on  the  back  of  a  chair.  A  blacksmith 
led  in  a  horse  and  began  to  shoe  him.  His  bellows 
roared  and  his  anvil  rang  so  loud  that  I  had  to  put 
my  fingers  in  my  ears.  His  fire  began  gradually  to 
darken  and,  with  a  sudden  puff,  it  went  out,  leaving 
me  in  total  darkness.  I  groped  about  but  could 
find  no  opening  in  the  wall.  I  cried  aloud  for  a 
lamp  and  I  cursed  the  blacksmith  for  allowing  his 
fire  go  out  Crawling  around  on  my  hands  and 
knees,  I  found  a  match.  I  kissed  it.  I  pressed  it 
to  my  heart.  "Thank  God!"  I  cried,  "Thank 
God  that  once  more  there  shall  be  light  in  the 
world."  Tears  streamed  from  my  eyes.  I  tried  to 
light  the  match.  The  tears  had  dampened  it,  and 


A   STRANGE   EXPERIENCE.  245 

with  the  feeblest  little  glow,  it  died  away,  leaving 
ine  in  despair.     I  heard  a  voice,  low  and  sweet 
"  Who  are  you?"  I  asked. 

A  tear  fell  on  my  forehead,  and  clasping  my 
hands,  I  turned  my  face  upward.  "  Whose  tears 
are  those  falling  upon  me?"  I  cried.  The  voice, 
soft  and  sweet,  sang,  but  the  tears  continued  to  fall. 
"Oh,  can't  you  give  me  a  lamp!"  I  cried  in  agony. 
Something  touched  me.  It  was  a  lamp,  cold  and 
dark,  but  I  hugged  it  close  to  me  and  took  care  lest 
my  tears  should  fall  upon  it.  I  placed  it  on  the 
floor,  and  with  my  hands  clasped  around  it  I  lay 
down  and  prayed.  A  feeble  little  gleam  flickered 
between  my  fingers.  The  lamp  grew  warm.  I  re 
moved  my  hands.  The  little  blaze  flickered,  and 
then,  yes,  oh  glories  of  heaven,  then — there  came  a 
grand  burst  of  light.  I  lay  on  a  bed.  The  sun 
shone  into  the  room.  A  face,  my  mother's  face, 
was  bowed  over  me.  "  Thank  God !"  she  exclaimed, 
and  encircled  my  neck  with  her  loving  arms.  My 
father  was  there,  too,  looking  upon  me. 

"  There  dear,"  said  my  mother,  "keep  very  quiet. 
For  weeks  you  have  hovered  between  life  and 
death." 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  warm  recollections  poured 
over  me.  I  could  remember  it  all ;  how  I  left  that 

dear  home  and  went  into  the  army. 

*#####*## 


246  A   STRANGE   EXPERIENCE. 

I  am  sitting  in  my  room  looking  out  on  the 
grassy  slope  where  I  played  so  many  years  ago. 
There  is  the  old  tree  where  I  used  to  swing  in  the 
cool  shade.  I  hear  my  mother  singing  in  the  sit 
ting-room.  They  say  my  father  laughs  again,  as 
he  did  when  I  was  a  boy.  Those  old  people  are 
in  a  heaven  of  happiness.  The  physician  says  that 
a  few  days  from  now  I  can  resume  the  business  of 
life.  My  mother  enters  and  presses  her  lips  upon 
my  brow. 

"  You  haven't  the  slightest  symptoms  of  fever, 
Norval,  dear,"  she  says. 

Angelic  woman !  She  cannot  keep  her  arms  from 
around  my  neck  when  she  comes  near  me.  Now 
she  goes  singing  through  the  hallway.  There 
stands  my  father  at  the  gate.  Something  has 
amused  him  for  he  laughs  as  he  did  when  I  was  a 
boy.  Yes,  my  name  is  Norval, 


A  MARINE  FARM  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ANY  of  the  old  Mississippi  river  men  can  recall 
Gottlieb  Langbuerger.  He  was  first  known  as  a 
cabin  boy,  industrious  and  economical,  and  with  dis 
cretion  better  ripened  than  with  most  boys  of  his 
years.  His  faithfulness  caused  his  gradual  advance 
ment,  and  at  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  placed  at 
the  head  of  a  large  steamboat.  This,  though,  was 
not  the  height  of  his  ambition.  He  yearned  to  own 
a  large  boat,  and  be  in  fact  its  master.  Large  boats 
in  those  days  were  often  called  floating  palaces,  so 
unsparing  was  the  means  employed  in  their  appoint 
ments,  and  even  an  industrious  man  who  aspired  to 
the  ownership  of  one  could  not  realize  his  ambitious 
dreams  in  a  day.  Gottlieb  married  a  Memphis 
lady,  a  girl,  not  unlike  himself,  of  sturdy  German 
stock.  Heart  and  soul,  she  shared  his  aspirations 
and  with  delight  they  soon  found  themselves,  in 
consequence  of  a  fortunate  speculation,  possessors 

247 


248  A~  MARINE   FARM    HOUSE. 

of  sufficient  money  with  which  to  build  their  "  float 
ing  palace." 

At  last,  Gottlieb  was  the  owner  of  a  fine  boat, 
and1  with  his  wife  and  little  girl  Ida  on  board,  he 
proudly  plowed  the  mighty  river.  During  an 
extremely  high  stage  of  water,  the  highest  ever 
known  in  that  day,  he  went  up  the  Arkansas  as  far 
as  Fort  Smith,  took  on  a  large  shipment  of  cotton, 
and  came  down  with  a  sweep.  With  what  feelings 
of  self-congratulation  did  he  stand  on  deck  and 
survey  the  people  who  rushed  from  their  houses  to 
watch  the  "Schiller"  as  she  passed,  and  how  his 
wife,  knowing  so  well  his  feelings,  shared  them. 
They  had  passed  Little  Rock  and  entered  the  low 
and  sandy  district,  when  a  dark  night  came  on. 

"  Don't  you  think  we'd  better  tie  up  till  morn 
ing?"  asked  Gottleib  of  the  pilot 

"  Not  at  all  necessary.  I  know  the  river  like  a 
book." 

"Yes,  but  remember  that  the  water  is  higher 
than  you  ever  saw  it  before." 

"Who  says  it  is?"  the  pilot  answered  rather 
sharply,  for  some  river  men  are  proud  of  their 
record  in  this  way  and  dislike  the  very  mention  of 
recent  waters  being  higher  than  any  they  have  seen 
in  tha  past. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  particularly  who  says  it  is, but 
from  what  I  can  gather  here  and  there,  the  river 
has  passed  her  highest  mark  of  former  years." 


A  MARINE  FARM  HOUSE.          249 

"  You  are  doubtless  good  authority  on  the  Missis 
sippi,  captain,  but  I  don't  think  you  are  very  well 
acquainted  with  the  Arkansas." 

"  All  right,  go  ahead." 

The  night  grew  darker  and  darker  and  a  fog  crept 
along  the  water  and  rose  into  the  air.  Not  a  light 
could  be  seen  along  the  shore. 

"  Wish  I  had  taken  his  advice,"  mused  the  pilot. 
"  Hanged  if  I  thought  that  a  few  drinks  would  make 
me  so  obstinate.  To  tell  the  God's  truth,  I  don't 
know  where  I  am.  The  river  must  have  risen  won 
derfully  for  the  whole  country  seems  to  be  over 
flowed.  I'd  land  but  am  afraid."  He  strained  his 
eyes  and  "  rummaged  "  his  recollection.  Gottlieb, 
with  an  anxious  face,  came  into  the  pilot-house. 

"Where  are  we,  Mr.  Quirmer?" 

"  Somewhat  near  the  Giles  place,  but  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  don't  know  exactly  where.  Wish  I  had 
taken  your  advice,  for  the  whole  country  is  over 
flowed." 

"  I  wish  you  had.  Some  of  the  passengers  have 
gone  to  bed.  Think  I'd  better  have  them  aroused." 

He  turned  to  go,  and  had  taken  hold  of  the  door 
knob,  when  the  boat  struck. 

"  Aground,  by  all  the  gods  that  ever  flew  over 
water!  "  exclaimed  the  pilot. 

The  captain's  face  was  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  Still 
holding  the  door  knob,  he  looked  at  the  pilot  and 
said: 


250  A   MARINE   FARM    HOUSE. 

"  You  have  ruined  me." 

"Don't  think  that,  captain.  She  struck  very 
easily,  and  I  think  that  by  unloading  a  few  bales  of 
cotton  we  can  shove  her  off." 

Gottlieb,  without  replying,  went  below.  The 
grounding  had  been  BO  easy  that  the  passengers 
were  not  in  the  least  frightened,  but  stood  about 
and  joked.  One  man  asked  the  captain  why  he 
didn't  call  his  boat  the  "  Plow  Boy,"  and  another 
man,  a  great  wag  and  self-appointed  wit,  said: 

"  Say,  cap'n,  why  don't  you  call  her  the  '  Wheel 
barrow?'" 

"  Because,"  Gottlieb  replied,  "  she  will  make  more 
than  one  track  before  she  gets  out  of  here." 

All  night  they  worked  without  avail.  Morning 
dawned  upon  a  scene  of  dreary  waste.  The  "  Schil 
ler  "  was  in  a  little  field  between  two  strips  of  wood. 
Hope  was  soon  abandoned,  for  the  water  was  falling 
rapidly.  The  pilot  kept  out  of  the  captain's  way, 
but  he  need  not  have  done  so,  for  the  poor  fellow's 
face  showed  sadness,  instead  of  anger.  When  the 
crew  had  been  called  to  be  paid  off  and  dismissed, 
the  captain  said,  "Boys,  I  hate  to  put  you  off  here, 
but  it  can't  be  helped.  This  field,  I  am  told,  was 
never  overflowed  before,  and  it  is  useless  to  expect 
a  rise  in  the  river.  I  have  made  arrangements  to 
have  this  cotton  hauled  away.  The  passengers 
will  also  receive  transportation.  Where  is  Mr. 
Quirmer?" 


A   MARINE   FARM   HOUSE.  251 

"  Here  I  am,  sir." 

"  Why  don't  you  come  up  and  get  your  money  ?" 

"  Because,  sir,  I  don't  deserve  it." 

"  Nonsense.  Do  you  suppose  I  think  •  you 
grounded  this  boat  purposely  ?" 

"  No;  but  I  am  the  cause  of  its  being  here." 

"  Yes;  and  I  am  the  cause  of  its  being  built." 

"  You  said  that  I  had  ruined  you." 

"  Did  I?  Well,  it  was  because  I  was  vexed  at 
the  time." 

"  I  have  never  seen  such  another  man  as  you 
are,  captain.  Many  a  man  would  not  only  have  cursed 
me,  but  would  almost  wiped  me  from  the  face  of  the 
earth." 

"  But  that  would  not  wipe  the  boat  from  the  face 
of  the  earth,"  the  captain  replied  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  captain?" 

"Stay  here." 

"In  hopes  of  a  rise?" 

"  I  don't  dare  to  hope,  but  this  boat  shall  be  my 
home." 

"  Tell  me,  if  I  am  worthy  to  be  told,  where  do 
you  get  such  strength?  How  can  you  bear  up  so 
well  under  such  misfortune  ?" 

"Do  you  see  that  woman?"  pointing  to  his  wife 
who  stood  a  short  distance  away,  leaning  on  a  rail 
ing  and  looking  out  over  the  field.  "I  get  my 
strength  from  her." 


252  A  MARINE  FARM  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  IL 

When  the  river  receded  into  its  proper  channel, 
the  "  Schiller  "  was  ten  miles  from  navigable  water. 
Gottlieb  purchased  the  little  field  on  which  his  boat 
had  stuck,  together  With  a  small  tract  of  adjoining 
land  and  decided  to  raise  cotton  and  corn.  He 
hired  a  party  of  men  and  dug  under  the  "  Schiller" 
until  she  had  been  sunken  into  a  large  excavation. 
Then  at  the  cost  of  great  labor  and  perseverence  he 
had  water  hauled  in  barrels  and  poured  into  the  exca 
vation.  Again  the  magnificent  steamer  was  afloat,  but 
had  to  content  herself  within  only  a  few  inches  of  play. 
One  of  the  crew,  an  engineer,  had  been  retained, 
and  nearly  every  evening  after  his  work  in  the  field 
was  done  for  the  day  he  would  raise  steam  and  set 
the  ponderous  machinery  in  motion.  Mrs.  Lang- 
buerger  soon  became  interested  in  raising  chickens, 
and  every  night  she  carefully  housed  her  brood  on 
board.  In  addition  to  agriculture,  Gottlieb  estab 
lished  a  school.  He  experienced  no  trouble  in  pro 
curing  scholars,  for  every  boy  and  girl  in  the  neigh 
borhood  were  charmed  with  the  idea  of  going  to 
school  on  a  boat.  The  captain  not  only  taught  the 
ordinary  branches,  but  instructed  the  boys  in  the 


A  MARINE  FARM  HOUSE.          253 

art  of  river  navigation,  a  highly  interesting  feature, 
for  nearly  every  boy  who  lives  near  a  navigable 
river  entertains  an  aspiring  hope  that  he  will  one 
day  be  a  steamboat  man.  Among  the  scholars  was 
a  bright  boy,  Henry  Rusworm.  The  captain  con 
ceived  such  friendship  for  the  lad,  partly  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  an  orphan,  that  he  adopted  the 
child.  There  was,  though,  a  tender  affection  await 
ing  the  lad,  for  as  the  years  crept  along,  little  Ida, 
Gottlieb's  daughter,  learned  to  love  him.  Her  love 
was  not  ill-bestowed,  for  Henry  worshiped  her  with 
that  intense  ardor  which  steals  into  a  boy's  life  at 
an  early  age. 

The  years  kept  rolling  on,  as  indeed  they  should, 
for  no  man  of  sense  could  have  expected  a  halt  of 
time  simply  because  a  steamboat  had  run  aground. 
The  "  Schiller  "  was  kept  in  excellent  repair.  Every 
year  she  was  freshly  painted,  and  every  unsound 
piece  of  wood  was  replaced  with  befitting  material. 

One  Sunday  when  the  captain  and  his  wife  had 
gone  to  church,  Ida  went  up  into  the  pilot-house 
where  Henry  sat  at  the  wheel.  They  had  both  ar 
rived  at  the  shy  age,  and,  at  times,  through  very 
excess  of  love,  avoided  each  other. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  said  Ida  blushing. 

"  If  you  had  known  it  you  wouldn't  have  come  up, 
would  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  would  have  come,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
come  so  soon." 


254          A  MARINE  FARM  HOUSE. 

*'  You  would  have  come  sooner  if  you  had  thought 
Web  Jones  had  been  here,"  meaning  a  boy  whom 
Henry  knew  she  disliked. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  either." 

"  You  like  him  better  than  anybody,  anyway." 

"You  know  I  don't,"  her  eyes  beamed  with  ten 
derness. 

"Then,  whom  do  you  like  better?" 

"  Somebody.  Law,  look  at  that  bird  on  the  jack 
staff." 

"Never  mind  the  bird." 

"  He's  gone  now." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  saw  a  bird?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  see  a  bird  any  time  when  I 
look  at  you." 

"  I'm  not  a  bird.     I  can't  fiy. " 

"  Yes  you  can.  You  have.  You  have  flown  into 
my  soul  and  fluttered  against  my  heart."  She 
looked  down  and  toyed  with  a  tassel  that  hung  from 
a  rich  cord  around  her  waist  Don't  you  know  tbat 
I  worship  you?" 

"No,  for  you  avoid  me." 

"You  avoid  me." 

"Don't  you  know  why?" 

"Yes,"  and  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

What  a  glorious  day  it  was  for  them.  How  many 
little  words  of  sweet  nothingness  passed  between 


A   MARINE   FARM   HOUSE.  255 

them  as  they  sat  in  the  pilot  house,  looking  out  over 
the  corn  stalks  that  shook  their  silks  and  silvery 
tassels  in  the  stirring  air. 

When  Gottlieb  returned  at  evening,  and  came  up 
into  the  pilot  house  where  Henry  sat  in  his  soul's 
own  twilight,  lost  in  a  reverie  of  sweet  content,  he 
touched  the  young  man,  who  was  unconscious  of  his 
approach,  and  said: 

"  Keeping  her  well  in  the  channel,  are  you,  my 
boy?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  humoring  the  joke. 

"  Look  out  for  snags.  I  have  had  sufficient  con 
fidence  in  you  to  promote  you  to  this  position  of 
trust,  so  keep  a  sharp  lookout." 

"I  shall,  captain." 

"  As  the  old  maid  at  the  quilting  said,  '  Why  so 
pensive. ' ' 

"  Nothing." 

"  Yes,  there  is  something.  Come,  out  with  it,  my 
boy." 

"  My  boy,"  again.  The  young  man  looked  earn 
estly  into  the  captain's  eyes,  but  saw  no  glow  of 
unusual  tenderness.  Discouraged,  foolish  fellow, 
thinking  that  the  captain  should  have  divined  his 
heart's  secret,  he  again  made  an  evasive  reply. 

"  Come ,  Henry,  I  see  that  something  is  indeed 
the  matter  with  you.  Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"Can't  you  seef 


256  A   MARINE    FARM    HOUSE. 

"No;  how  can  I?" 

"  Have  you  been  so  unobservant  all  these  years  V 

"  What  do  you  mean,  lad  ?  You  are  actually  mys 
terious." 

"Oh,  sir,  if  I  am  presumptuous,  forgive  me.  You 
took  me  when  I  was  homeless  and  gave  me  a  wel 
come  full  of  kindness.  You  have  educated  me — " 

"  And  taught  you  to  be  a  pilot." 

"  Yes,  taught  me  everything  I  know,  and  it  grieves 
me  to  think  that  I  have  taken  advantage  of  your 
kindness." 

"How?" 

"By  loving  Ida." 

"  You  are  a  foolish  boy.  And  is  this  the  weight 
that  oppresses  you?  Why,  Henry,  when  she  was  a 
little  girl,  in  flowing  night-gown,  kneeling  by  her 
mother  at  night,  she  used  to  mention  your  name  in 
her  prayers.  She  still  prays  for  you."  Henry 
caught  the  captain's  hand. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

A  heavy  rain  had  been  falling  all  day,  and  reports 
from  above  spoke  of  high  water  coming  down. 
Although  Gottlieb  had  long  since  lost  all  hope  of 


A  MAEINE  FABM  HOUSE.          257 

aver  again  steaming  down  the  river  on  the  "  Schiller," 
for  high  banks  had  formed  between  his  farm  and 
the  river,  yet  he  always  read  with  interest  accounts  of 
high  water.  A  dark  night  set  in  and  the  rainfall  In 
creased  in  volume.  The  old  engineer  raised  steam,  as 
usual,  and  the  bow  of  the  "  Schiller  "  pressed  against 
the  edge  of  her  narrow  confines.  Henry  took  his 
accustomed  place  at  the  wheel.  "  I  never  heard 
such  a  rain,"  he  mused.  "  Good  thing  we  brought 
the  horses  aboard." 

At  a  late  hour  he  still  sat  in  the  pilot  house. 
The  machinery  was  slowly  working.  "  Old  Bob," 
he  mused,  "must  be  industrious  to-night,  but  he 
always  works  his  engine  when  the  weather's  bad." 

The  captain  came  up.  "  You'd  better  turn  in, 
Henry;  it's  getting  late.  Great  Lord!  What  was 
that?" 

The  boat  had  moved.  The  rain  fell  in  such  vol 
ume  that  no  rush  of  water  could  be  heard.  Henry's 
eyes  stood  out  in  a  wild  stare.  The  boat  moved, 
careened  to  one  side,  steadied  herself  and  shot  for 
ward. 

"Give  me  the  wheel,  give  her  to  me! "  exclaimed 
the  captain. 

"  Get  away,  captain,  you  are  too  much  excited. 
I  know  where  we  are;  going  through  the  Welling 
field.  The  water  naturally  turns  to  the  right  here, 
for  the  land  is  low."  Lightning  flashed.  "Don't 
you  see?  " 

17 


258          A  MABINE  FARM  HOUSE. 

"God  bless  the  boy." 

"Bless  us  all,"  Henry  replied.  Mrs.  Langbuerger 
and  Ida  rushed  into  the  pilot  house. 

"Now  we  turn  into  Bobson's  narrow  field,"  he 
said,  as  another  flash  of  lightning  illuminated  the 
yellow  sheet  of  water. 

"Where  can  we  get  into  the  river,  Henry?  " 

"  We  go  over  Jackson's  field  into  Cove  creek,  and 
then  on  to  the  river.  I've  planned  the  route  many 
a  time,  and  have  walked  over  it  a  hundred  times." 

"  Fifteen  years  since  the  '  Schiller  '  came  up  the 
river,"  the  captain  said. 

"  Here  we  are,"  as  another  flash  of  lightning  lit 
up  with  a  glare  the  mighty,  rushing  river.  For  a 
time  no  one  spoke.  Morning  slowly  advanced,  and 
when  the  light  was  sufficient,  the  "  Schiller  "  was 
landed.  A  crew  was  soon  formed. 

While  the  captain  was  standing  on  the  shore  a 
man  approached  him  and  said: 

"You  don't  remember  me,  do  you?" 

"  Why,  Quirmer,  how  are  you?  " 

"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  #m  that  you  are 
again  afloat." 

"  Go  aboard.  Henry  doesn't  know  the  river,  and 
I  want  you  to  teach  him.  In  other  words,  take  your 
old  place.  There,  don't  mention  it,  but  go  aboard, 
for  we  are  going  to  start  in  a  few  minutes. 

That  night  Henry  and  Ida  were  married. 


A  MARINE   FABM   HOUSE.  259 

"  What  boat  is  that?  "  asked  a  man  at  Helena  the 
other  day. 

"That's  the  'Schiller,'  built  by  old  man  Lang- 
buerger.  Henry  Bus  worm  is  the  captain  now,  but 
the  old  man  is  so  full  of  life  that  he  goes  out  every 
trip." 


THE  RADISH  KING. 


THE  other  evening,  during  a  conversation  OB 
insanity,  its  causes  and  sensations,  Col.  Weekley 
said: 

"  T  was  once  insane,  and  I  often  muse  over  my 
experience.  There  are,  of  course,  many  kinds  of 
insanity.  Some  mental  disorders  take  place  so 
gradually  that  even  the  closest  companions  of  the 
victim  are  at  a  loss  to  remember  when  the  trouble 
began.  It  must  have  been  this  way  in  my  case. 
One  evening,  after  an  oppressively  warm  day,  a  day 
when  I  experienced  more  fatigue  from  the  heat  than 
ever  before  or  since,  I  sat  on  my  porch  fanning 
myself.  '  This  arm  that  is  now  in  motion, '  I  mused, 
'  must  one  of  these  days  be  dust.  I  wonder  how 
long  will  the  time  be.  There  is  a  spot  where  the 
grass  doubtless  grows  that  will  one  day  be  opened 
to  receive  my  body — my  body  that  is  now  alive. 
The  man  is  probably  now  living  who  will  part  the 
grass  and  dig  my  grave.  There  are  pebbles  under 
the  sod — pebbles  there  now,  that  are  waiting  to  be 
disturbed  by  the  spade  that  lifts  the  clay  from  my 


261 


262  THE   RADISH   KING. 

grave.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  die.  I  see  how  easy, 
how  necessary,  it  is  for  others  to  die,  but  when  it 
comes  to  me,  I  can  not  see  the  use.  I  wonder  if  I 
am  actually  compelled  to  die.  Wonder  if  there 
won't  be  an  exception  to  this  great  rule.  I  believe 
that  death  was  intended  for  others  but  that  I  can 
not  die.'  Then  I  mused  upon  the  evidence  I  had  of 
immortality.  I  could  do  things  that  other 
people  could  not  accomplish.  I  had  gone  through 
battle  after  battle,  and  though  bullets  sang  and 
struck  around  me  thick  as  hail  yet  I  remained 
uninjured.  I  had  passed  through  epidemics  of 
yellow  fever.  People  all  around  me  were  stricken 
as  if  by  an  avenging  hand,  yet  I  passed  through  the 
terrible  scenes,  coming  out,  it  seemed,  all  the 
healthier  for  my  experience.  My  idea  gained 
strength  as  I  mused,  and  I  was  convinced  that  I 
should  live  forever.  It  all  seemed  so  plain,  that  I 
thought  of  telling  my  wife,  but  then  I  thought  how 
bad  it  must  make  her  feel  to  know  that  she  must 
Boon  pass  away. 

"  The  next  morning,  while  I  walked  in  the  garden, 
the  sun  came  up  in  cloudless  splendor,  and  I  again 
fell  to  musing.  'I  am  a  mere  worm,'  I  thought. 
'  This  great  sun  is  immortal,  not  I.  But  I  may 
be  the  sun.  Perhaps  it  is  a  part  of  me. 
I  feel  its  warmth,  and  no  matter  how  fast  I 
run,  0/  which  way  I  turn,  it  follows  me.  No,  this 


THE   BADISH   KING.  263 

can  not  be,  for  it  follows  all  men  alike.  Yes,  I  am 
to  die  like  other  men,  and  I  believe  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  make  the  most  of  life ;  to  make  money,  and 
enjoy  myself,  and  to  educate  my  children.'  A  great 
load  of  oppressive  concern  seemed  to  be  lifted  from 
my  mind.  I  wanted  to  be  rich,  and  I  began  to  study 
tover  an  imaginary  list  of  enterprises.  At  last  I  hit 
upon  radishes.  People  must  have  radishes.  They 
should  be  in  every  store.  They  could  be  dried 
and  sold  in  winter.  I  would  plant  fifty  acres 
with  radish  seed,  and  people  all  over  the  country 
would  refer  to  me  as  the  'radish  king.'  I  would 
form  q,  radish  syndicate,  and  buy  up  all  the 
radishes,  and  travel  around  and  be  admired. 
I  hastened  to  the  house  to  tell  my  wife  that  she  was 
Boon  to  be  a  radish  queen.  At  the  breakfast-table 
I  said: 

" '  Julia,  how  would  you  like  to  be  a  radish 
queen  ? ' 

'• '  A  what?  '  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  explained  my  plan  of  acquiring  great  wealth, 
and  during  the  recital  she  acted  so  curiously  that  I 
was  alarmed.  I  feared  that  she  was  losing  her 
mind.  Finally  she  seemed  to  understand.  She 
agreed  with  me,  but  told  me  not  to  say  anything 
more  about  it.  After  breakfast  I  saw  her  talking 
earnestly  with  her  father,  and  I  knew  that  she  was 
explaining  to  the  old  gentleman  how  she  intended  to 


264  THE   BADISH  KING. 

pay  his  debts  when  I  became  known  as  the  radish 
king.  The  old  man  approached  me  with  much  con 
cern,  and  told  me  that  I  needed  rest,  and  that  I 
must  not  think  of  business.  He  was  old  and  sadly 
worried,  and  I  promised  him  that  I  would  not  think 
of  business.  Pretty  soon  I  went  out  to  inspect  my 
radish  kingdom.  Looking  around,  I  saw  the  olcl 
man  following  me.  I  humored  his  whim  by  paying 
no  attention  to  him.  From  the  field  I  went  to  the 
village.  I  approached  a  prominent  citizen  who  had 
always  been  my  friend,  and  told  him  how  I  intended 
to  become  rich.  He  seemed  grieved,  and  I  saw  at 
once  that  he  was  contemplating  the  same  enterprise. 
It  seemed  mean  that  he  should  take  advantage  of 
me,  and  I  told  him  so.  He  tried  to  explain,  but  he 
made  me  so  mad  that  I  would  have  struck  him  if 
my  father-in-law  hadn't  come  up  and  separated  us. 
I  tried  to  calm  myself,  but  could  not.  Those  who 
had  been  my  friends  proved  to  be  my  enemies,  and 
I  was  determined  to  be  avenged,  but  before  I  could 
execute  my  will  I  was  seized  by  several  men.  My 
father-in-law  did  not  attempt  to  rescue  me,  and  I 
hated  him.  I  was  taken  to  jail.  My  wife  came  to 
see  me,  but  she  did  not  try  to  have  me  released.  I 
demanded  a  trial,  but  no  lawyer  would  defend  me. 
Then  I  realized  that  the  entire  community  was 
against  me.  I  became  so  mad  that  my  anger  seemed 
to  hang  over  me  like  a  dark  cloud.  It  pressed  me 


THE   RADISH  KING.  266 

to  the  floor  and  held  me  there.  Men  came  after  a 
long  time  and  took  me  away,  I  thought  to  the  peni 
tentiary.  One  day  a  cat  came  into  my  cell,  and  I 
tried  to  bite  it.  She  made  the  hair  fly,  but  I  killed 
her.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  remained  here,  but 
one  morning  the  sun  rose  and  shone  in  at  me 
through  the  window.  It  seemed  to  be  the  first  time 
that  I  had  seen  the  great  luminary  for  months.  A 
mist  cleared  before  my  eyes.  My  brain  began  to 
work,  and  suddenly  I  realized  that  I  had  been  in 
sane.  I  called  the  keeper,  and  when  he  saw  me  he 
exclaimed,  '  Thank  God! '  and  grasped  my  hand.  I 
was  not  long  in  putting  on  another  suit  of  clothes 
and  turning  my  face  toward  home.  A  physician  said 
that  I  was  cured,  and  everybody  seemed  bright  and 
happy  at  my  recovery.  I  boarded  a  train  with  a 
gentleman,  and  went  home.  My  wife  fainted  when 
she  saw  me  and  learned  that  I  had  recovered  my 
mind.  I  asked  for  my  little  children,  and  two  big 
boys  and  a  young  lady  came  foward  and  greeted 
me.  I  had  been  in  the  asylum  twelve  years." 


BROUGHT  THE   MONEY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

People  who  lived  in  Nashyille,  Tenn,,  in  1876, 
have  surely  not  forgotten  Anzeli  J3otenio,  the  artist. 
He  had  an  obscure  room,  a  studio,  he  termed  it, 
reached  by  an  alley  leading  off  from  a  street  not  noted 
for  its  respectability.  As  his  name  implies  he  was  of 
Italian  extraction ;  indeed,  he  claimed  to  have  been  ed 
ucated  in  Florence,  but  this  his  acquaintances  seemed 
to  doubt,  not  that  they  had  ever  detected  him  in  an 
untruth,  but  because,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  his 
pronunciation  was  strikingly  American.  If  his  wor 
ship  of  art  could  have  been  crystalized  into  art  itself 
he  would  have  become  famous ;  but,  somehow,  I  am 
not  sufficiently  schooled  to  tell  why,  he  lacked  the 
simple  yet  divine  touch  of  greatness.  Some  of  his 
pictures  were  beautiful,  surely;  but  the  art  critics — 
and  I  fancy  that  they  knew  more  of  ordinary  white 
wash  than  of  fine  paint — criticised  them  with  uncouth 
severity.  I  have  never  seen  a  man  possessed  of  a 
more  lovable  disposition.  Neither  hunger  nor  that 

m 


268  BBOUdHT   THE   MONET. 

which  is  worse  to  a  sensitive  soul,  disappointment, 
tended  to  throw  the  melancholy  of  twilight  where  hia 
sunshine  of  bright  hope  had  played.  "Ah,"  he 
would  sometimes  say,  "  perfect  love  must  finally 
result  in  perfect  execution.  Yes,  the  moonlight  in 
that  picture  must  be  unnatural.  I  will  go  out 
to-night,  study  nature  and  remedy  the  defect." 

One  night  at  a  picture  sale  Anzeli  was  introduced 
to  one  of  the  handsomest  young  women  of  the  south, 
Miss  Laura  Blythe,  niece  of  old  General  A.  T.  Patter- 
eon.  Laura  lived  with  her  uncle,  her  parents  having 
died  when  she  was  a  child;  and,  as  the  old  fellow  had 
no  children,  it  was  said  that  she  would  inherit  his 
property.  Anzeli  thought  not  of  this  when  he  stood 
enthralled  by  her  presence.  At  once,  and  before  he 
could  realize  it,  he  gave  her  the  love  which  his  soul 
had  warmly  treasured  to  bestow  upon  an  ideal  of  its 
own  creation.  He  had  often  said,  in  conversation 
with  a  friend,  that  he  did  not  expect  ever  to  love  a 
human  being.  "  I  know  that  I  am  foolish,"  h« 
admitted,  "  but  I  can  not  love  a  woman  unless  she  is 
perfectly  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  I  fancy  any 
human  being  can  be.  Her  face  must  not  bear  the 
slightest  blemish ;  there  must  not  be  the  mistake  of 
a  single  line;  but,  of  course,  I  shall  never  meet  her." 

When  his  heart  ceased  fluttering  and  when  his 
eye  became  steadier  he  knew  that  he  had  met  her. 

She  was  struck  with  him,  for  when  her  uncle  called 


BBOUQHT  THE   MONEY.  289 

her  she  lingered,  with  half-blushing  dalliance,  as 
though  hesitating  to  say  something  which  she  feared 
would  be  inappropriate.  They  met  again  the  night 
following  and  he  walked  home  with  her,  though,  had 
his  eye  been  more  observant  of  surroundings,  he 
might  have  seen  that  the  old  general  approved  not 
of  his  attention  to  the  young  woman.  After  this 
they  met  often,  though  not  at  the  general's  house. 
Once  at  the  house  of  a  convenient  friend  he  sat  press 
ing  her  beautiful  head  to  his  bosom. 

"  You  know  that  I  am  wretchedly  poor."  he  said. 

"Yes,  Anzeli." 

"That  I  haven't  money  enough  to  furnish  a 
house." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  that." 

"  If  it  is  painful  to  you,  I  will  not." 

"  It  is  only  painful  to  me  because  it  seems  painful 
to  you,"  she  replied.  "I  care  for  nothing  but  your 
love.  I  would  rather  starve  with  you  than  feast 
with  any  other  mortal." 

He  moved  uneasily.  "  Do  you  doubt  me?"  she 
Asked. 

"  I  cannot  doubt  you,  but — " 

"But  what,  love?" 

"  Oh,  it  seems  that  those  words  have  been  spoken 
^o  often  before." 

"Perhaps,  but  never  before  by  me,"  she  said, 
putting  her  arms  around  his  neck. 


270  BBOtfGHT   THE   MONET. 

11  But  are  you  so  different  from  all  other  women? 
Is  A  beautiful  face  after  all  but  the  light  thrown 
from  a  beautiful  soul?" 

"  Now  you  are  trying  to  flatter  me  again,  Anzeli." 

"  No,  it  would  be  impossible  to  flatter  you.  Flat 
tery  is  an  exaggeration,  but  can  the  most  gifted  flat 
terer  exaggerate  the  brightness  of  the  sun?" 

*'  There  you  go,"  she  joyously  replied.  "  In  de 
fending  yourself  you  cap  the  climax  of  flattery  5  but 
never  mind,  dear,  yo'u  shall  see.  We  can  fent  a 
small  house,  and  even  though  the  walls  and  the 
floors  may  be  bare,  a  vine  can  grow  at  the  door.'1 

"  Yes,  in  the  summer,"  he  replied,  "  but  when 
winter  comes  will  not  the  vine  die?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "A  thousand  times  no.  The 
summer  of  love  knows  not  the  coming  of  winter;  and 
the  warm  zone  of  devoted  hearts  will  always  keep 
the  Vine  alive." 

"  Laura,  you  are  an  angel,  and  I  cannot  help  but 
feel  that  what  you  say  is  true." 

"Ah,  but  you  inust  not  struggle  against  such  a 
fond  conviction." 

"  Its  very  fondness  is  its  adverse  argument,"  he 
responded.  "  Your  uncle  has  declared  that  if  you 
become  the  wife  of  a  daubing  beggar  you  shall  never 
enter  his  house  again." 

"But,"  she  laughingly  replied,  "it  seems  that 
these  words  have  been  spoken  so  often  before. 


BEOUGHT   THE   MONEY.  271 

There,  now,  I  didn't  say  that  to  make  you  muse.  It 
shall  make  no  difference  to  me  even  if  I  don't  go 
into  the  house  again.  Let  him  leave  his  money  to 
some  one  else.  I  don't  want  it." 

"  Will  you  not  think  of  it  when  you  lock  at  the 
bare  walls?" 

"  No,  for  then  1  can  tuf n  to  the  vine.  Now,  don't 
muse  again.  Let  me  tell  you,  once  for  all,  Anzeli, 
that  I  have  faith  in  your  coming  success.  Of  course 
this  does  not  influence  my  love,  but  I  cannot  help 
but  believe,  cannot  help  but  know  that  one  of  these 
days  great  men  will  come  and  buy  your  pictures. 
Let  us  be  happy  now.  Let  not  a  worrying  thought, 
always  so  full  of  mischief,  weave  shadows  for  our 
future." 

"Laura,  you  are,  in  every  way,  superior  to  me. " 

"flow  you  do  beckon  to  the  shadows,  Anzeli." 

"You  are  more  philosophical  than  I  am,  beautiful 
girl." 

"  Will  the  shadows  not  cortfe  after  such  pleading?" 
she  mischievously  asked. 

"  No,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  You  have  driven  them 
away." 


272  BBOUOF.T   THE   MONEY. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  beautiful  woman  stood  in  the  door  of  a  small 
house  in  an  unattractive  part  of  the  city.  It  was 
summer  and  the  tendrils  of  a  vine  waved  above  her 
head.  There  was  no  carpet  in  the  room,  but  the 
walls  were  adorned  with  paintings  without  frames. 
A  man  came  and  kissed  the  woman. 

"  Anzeli,  you  look  tired." 

"I  am  tired — sick  and  tired." 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong?" 

"Everything." 

"What?" 

"  Oh,  Anderson  has  refused  to  take  the  landscape 
which  he  pretended  to  admire  so  much  and  which  he 
said  he  would  pay  me  for  to-day." 

"What explanation  did  he  make?" 

"  He  said  that  he  didn't  want  a  picture  that  had 
been  ridiculed  by  the  newspapers.  I  was  so  anxious 
for  him  to  take  it.  Just  think,  we  could  have 
bought  a  carpet  for  this  room." 

"  And  could  have  gotten  some  better  chairs  than 
these,"  she  sadly  replied. 

"Yes,  but  never  mind,  love.  The  picture  I  am 
working  on  now  will  command  attention ;  I  just  know 


BROUGHT   THE   MONEY.  273 

it  will.  Several  cows  are  standing  in  a  brook  and 
you  can  almost  fancy  that  you  see  the  minnows 
playing  about  their  hoofs.  Just  bear  with  me  a  little 
longer." 

She  sat  down  and,  with  that  motion  so  indescrib 
able,  but  so  expressixe  of  a  thoroughly  disconsolate 
state  of  mind,  crossed  her  hands. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  improving  all  the  time,"  he 
continued.  "  Each  day  I  get  nearer  and  nearer  to  a 
wonderful  vision  which  I  shall  one  day  see  clearly. 
Sometimes  I  feel  that  it  is  about  to  break  upon  my 
sight,  but  then  a  mist  arises  and  shuts  it  entirely 
out.  One  of  these  days  the  mist  will  not  arise,  and 
then,  when  people  come  to  look  at  a  picture  they 
will  say,  '  This  is  a  glimpse  of  paradise. '  Don't  be 
disheartened,  Laura,  but  bear  with  me  a  little  longer. " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck.  "  Heaven  lingers  with  me  while  I  wait 
with  you,"  she  said.  "  You  are  so  good  and  so  gentle 
that  I  reproach  myself  when — 

"When  you  do  what,  dear?" 

"  When  I  look  about  the  room  and  wish  that  it 
were  furnished  better.  Some  people  are  so  cruel." 

"Has  anyone  been  cruel  to  you?  Has  anyone 
written  you  another  anonymous  letter,  telling  you 
how  much  better  you  could  have  done?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  tore  it  to  pieces." 

"After  reading  it?"  he  asked. 
it 


274  BROUGHT   THE   HONEY. 

"Ob,  yes;  I  could  not  help  reading  it" 

"  What  did  the  writer  say  ?" 

"Something  that  would  sting  a  woman,  though 
she  were  an  angel." 

"What?" 

"  That  if  more  than  three  visitors  were  to  call  up 
on  us  at  once,  someone  would  haye  to  stand  or  sit  on 
the  floor." 

"  None  but  a  wretch  could  haye  written  such  a 
letter,  Laura.  Don't  let  it  worry  you." 

"  The  actual  deprivations  enforced  by  poverty  are 
easy  enough  to  bear,  but  the  humility  of  knowing  that 
scantiness  of  necessary  furniture  places  one  under 
the  jeering  espionage  of — of — " 

"There,  now,  Laura,  you  must  pot  give  way  to 
your  feelings.  I  know  that  you  are  fitted  intellect 
ually  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great  man,  that  you  are  as 
strong  mentally  as  you  are  beautiful  physically,  but 
repose  faith  in  me  just  a  little  longer." 

"  Anzeli,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  to  a  small  look 
ing-glass  and  began  to  arrange  her  beautiful  hair, 
"  to  be  unhappy  with  you  would  argue  strangely 
against  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Speaking  of 
the  soul  reminds  me  of  the  body,"  she  cheerfully 
added.  "  Come,  supper  is  ready." 

Time  moved  slowly  and  darkly,  like  a  lengthen 
ing  shadow.  One  morning,  while  looking  over  a 
newspaper  printed  in  a  distant  city,  Laura  found 


BEOUGHT   THE   MONEY.  275 

the  following:  "  The  once  beautiful  Laura  Blythe, 
the  pride  of  southern  society,  is  now  the  wife  of  an 
Italian  fanatic  who  imagines  that  he  can  paint  pict 
ures.  It  is  said  that  he  has  dragged  her  down  to  a 
poverty  and  wretchedness  that  is  fast  breaking  her 
heart."  She  threw  the  paper  down  and  burst  into 
tears.  Anzeli  came  home,  almost  joyous  in  the  en 
tertainment  of  some  new  prospect,  but  she  shud 
dered  and  turned  away  from  him. 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"  I  am  everything  that  is  miserable,"  she  replied. 

"  Has  anything  new  gone  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"  Is  wretchedness  always  tiptoeing  in  the  expect 
ancy  of  some  new  pang  ?" 

He  muttered  something  about  the  bright  vision 
which  he  knew  must  soon  be  clearly  presented  to 
him.  She  did  not  reply,  and  during  a  long  and 
dreary  evening,  they  remained  silent.  The  leaves 
on  the  vine  at  the  door  were  turning  yellow. 

"Anzeli,"  she  said,  several  days  later,  "  did  Jack 
son  take  the  picture?" 

"No,"  he  replied. 

"  Of  course  not.  It  is  time  we  were  putting  aside 
some  of  our  foolishness." 

"Foolishness?"  he  gasped. 

"  Yes,  foolishness.     I  must  have  some  money." 

"  You  shall  have  it,  Laura.     The  vision — " 

"Never  mind  the  vision,  Anzeli.       There 


276  BROUGHT    THE    MONEY. 

been  too  many  visions  and  not  enough  substances  iu 
this  hovel.  You  can  surely  find  some  sort  of  em 
ployment.  Art  may  be  ennobling,  but  it  is  disgrace 
ful  to  live  this  way." 

"  What  am  I  to  do?"  he  sadly  replied.  "  I  know 
nothing  of  the  business  affairs  of  men.  I  can  do 
nothing  but  paint." 

"  Paint!"  she  repeated.  He  looked  up  quickly, 
and  then  seemed  to  be  endeavoring  to  swallow  some 
thing. 

"  You  can  very  easily  turn  your  hand  to  something 
else,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  love  me,  Laura." 

"  What,  don't  love  you  simply  because  I  believe 
that  you  are  capable  of  making  a  living!  Don't 
love  you  because  I  am  human  being  enough  to  wish 
for  something  better  than  this  wretched  room !  You 
delight  in  calling  me  an  angel,  but  do  angels  seek 
a  dark  and  wretched  abode  ?  Be  sensible,  Anzeli, 
I  must  have  money." 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  money,"  he  replied.     "  I 
have  several  pictures  that  I  can  sell." 

The  next  night  when  he  came  home,  she  met  him 
at  the  door  and  asked  him  if  he  had  brought  the 
money. 

"  I  did  not  succeed  in  selling  the  pictures." 

"I  knew  it." 

"  But  I  will  bring  you  some  money  to-morrow 
night" 


BROUGHT   THE   MONEY.  277 

"The  old  story,  Anzeli." 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  money  to-morrow  night," 
he  repeated. 

A  frost  had  fallen.  The  leaves  on  the  vine  at  the 
door  were  black. 

It  was  late  when  ho  came  home  the  next  night 
She  was  sitting  with  her  arms  resting  on  a  table, 
and  did  not  look  up  when  he  entered.  Without 
speaking,  he  advanced,  and  from  a  small  bag 
emptied  a  pile  of  gold  upon  the  table.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck. 
"Oh,  Anzeli,"  she  cried,  "I  may  have  been  petu 
lant,  but  I  have  never  lost  faith  in  you.  Won't 
you  forgive  me?  " 

"  I  have  brought  the  money." 

"Yes,  dear.  Oh,  I  knew  that  they  could  not 
much  longer  refuse  to  buy  your  pictures.  I  am  so 
glad  now  that  you  did  not  give  up  your  noble  pro 
fession.  How  many  pictures  did  you  sell?  " 

"  I  have  brought  the  money,"  he  solemnly  re 
peated.  She  kissed  him,  and  with  a  flutter  of  joy 
sat  down  and  fondled  the  gold.  "  I  will  buy  ever  so 
many  things,"  she  mused.  "Let  me  see  how  much 
we  have.  Three  hundred  dollars,"  she  exclaimed, 
when  she  had  counted  the  money.  "  Anzeli  !  Where 
did  he  go?  You  will  find  your  supper  on  the  table," 
she  called.  "Three  hundred  dollars,"  she  re 
peated,  again  fondling  the  gold.  "  The  wretch  who 


278  BROtJaHT   THE   MONET. 

has  been  sending  anonymous  letters  should  take  a 
peep  into  mf  house  next  week.  What  a  dear, 
patient  man  Anzeli  is.  I  will  go  to  him.  Why,  he 
hasn't  eaten  a  bite,"  she  said,  when  she  had  gone 
into  the  kitchen.  She  opened  the  back  door  and 
called  him.  No  answer.  She  went  around  to  the 
front  door  and  called.  A  dead  vine  fell  at  her  feet. 
She  called  again  and  again.  "  He  has  gone  back  to 
work,"  she  said,  but  her  hand  shook  when  she  re 
turned  to  the  sitting  room  and  began  to  fondle  th* 
gold.  The  night  wore  away.  She  had  not  slept. 
Ser  eyes  were  swollen.  Some  one  knocked  at  the 
door.  She  opened  it  and  an  excited  man  exclaimed: 
"  Great  God,  madam,  a  man  is  hanging  from  a  tree 
in  your  back  yard!  " 

That  morning  the  Nashville  American  contained 
the  following  paragraph:  "  Late  last  night  the  store 
of  J.  B.  Hillitt,  on  Cherry  street,  was  robbed  of 
$300  in  gold." 


ZOZI. 


AMONG  the  effects  of  T.  B.  Ludds,  whose  death 
was  recently  announced  by  the  Chicago  newspapers, 
was  found  a  manuscript  written  by  a  young  woman. 
It  was  entitled  "  A  Confession,"  and  attached  to 
it  was  the  following  note  in  the  handwriting  of 
Mr.  Ludds: 

"  This  was  sent  to  me  by  the  writer  thereof, 
Laura  Brizinari,  whoj  a  few  years  ago,  held  sway 
as  an  acknowledged  beauty;  and,  lest  some  one 
may  wonder  how  I  came  possessed  of  this  Con 
fession,  let  me  say  that  Laura  Brizman  had  pro 
mised  to  be  my  wife." 


I  don't  ask  for  sympathy  —  I  ask  for  nothing 
except  an  unprejudiced  reading  of  these  lines, 
and  yet  I  don't  see  how  I  can  hope  even  for  so 
much  consideration.  There  may  come  a  time  when 
to  some  extent  I  shall  be  vindicated;  and,  with 
this  in  view,  I  shall  set  down,  in  minute  detail, 
the  strange  experience  which  befell  me. 


279 


280  ZOZL 

One  afternoon,  while  returning  home  on  a  subur 
ban  train  after  a  day  of  shopping,  a  most  peculiar 
feeling  suddenly  came  over  me.  For  a  few  moments 
my  mind  seemed  to  be  in  a  strange  tumble,  fall 
ing  or  turning  over  and  over,  and  during  the  time 
my  heart  fluttered  with  fright;  but  suddenly  I 
became  calm,  and  out  of  that  whirlwind  of  emo 
tion  came  the  conviction  that  I  had  lived  hundreds 
of  years  ago.  We  all  have  felt  this  impression, 
and  I  had  felt  it  many  times  before;  and,  after 
a  moment's  perplexity,  had  dismissed  it  as  a  men 
tal  phenomenon  that  never  could  be  understood; 
but  this  time  it  was  more  than  an  impression  — 
indeed,  it  was  clarified  into  a  defined  recollection  — 
and  I  remembered  the  following  incidents  of  a 
former  life:  It  must  have  been  at  least  three  hun 
dred  years  ago  when  I  lived  in  Florence.  My 
father,  Lopelo  Denzi,  was  a  rich  merchant,  and 
I  an  only  child.  I  could  get  but  fitful  glimpses 
of  my  childhood;  but  I  well  remembered  the  day 
I  was  fifteen,  when  I  was  given  as  a  bride  to 
Antonio  Moraso.  How  thrillingly  this  came  up 
and  took  possession  of  me  that  afternoon,  and 
how  I  attempted  to  reason  with  myself.  I  tried 
to  calm  myself  with  a  strong  view  of  the  pres 
ent —  that  I  was  a  Yankee  girl,  sitting  in  a  rail- 
v.ay  train,  looking  out  on  an  Illinois  prairie  — 
but  the  soft  air  and  the  delicate  perfume  of  an 


ZOZL  281 

Italian  garden  came  and  made  my  senses  swim. 
And  then,  the  recollection  of  my  marriage  was 
BO  strong  that  reason  turned  an  ardent  advocate, 
and  urged  me  to  recall  the  details  of  my  happy 
wedding. 

Antonio  Moraso!  How  brave  and  handsome  he 
was  —  with  curling  hair  and  eyes  of  softest  luster. 
I  could  recall  every  feature  of  his  face,  and  so 
distinctly,  on  a  sudden,  did  I  remember,  or  rather 
hear  again,  the  music  of  his  voice,  that  I  was 
thrilled  —  thrilled  back  into  the  rushing  age  of 
the  present.  Again  did  I  argue  with  myself, 
striving  to  make  myself  believe  that  I  had  been 
asleep;  but  as  I  sat  looking  out  over  a  Dutch 
man's  cabbage  patch,  the  recollection  of  my  life 
in  Florence  came  back  with  heightened  color,  and 
now,  no  longer  attempting  to  hold  my  mind  in 
restraint,  I  loosened  it  and  let  it  fly  back  to  the 
narrow  streets  of  Dante's  town. 

A  bride  at  fifteen;  but  with  what  a  happy  will 
ingness!  I  loved  Antonio  with  a  passion  that 
could  not  exist  in  this  cold,  commercial  age.  The 
wedding,  eve,  with  its  knightly  company!  How 
its  music  and  its  incense  came  back  to  me.  Then 
came  a  haze  through  which  I  could  scarcely  see, 
and  then  Antonio  and  I  were  living  in  a  charm 
ing  old  house.  Most  of  all,  I  remember  one  even 
ing  ;  we  were  sitting  in  the  garden. 


282  ZOZL 

"  Zozi,"  said  he,  with  big  arm  fondly  about 
me,  "  is  it  pot  a  cruel  fate  that  at  some  time 
death  "will  separate  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  that,  love,"  I  implored. 

"  It  was  on  my  mind,"  he  went  on,  drawing 
me  closer  to  him,  "  but  I  believe  that  we  shall 
live  again;  I  do  npt  mean  in  heaven,  but  on  this 
earth.  Hundreds  of  years  from  now  we  may  meet 
and  love  again.  I  njay  come  as  a  rude  plow-boy, 
and  you  may  be  rich  and  a  maid  of  honor  at 
court;  but  I  shall  woo  you,  and  you  will  hearken, 
for  you  will  know  that  you  were  mine  '  in  ages 
gone.'" 

I  remembered  this  as  well  as  though  but  a 
day  had  passed;  but  I  could  not  recall  what 
immediately  followeii;  indeed,  a  patch  of  dark 
ness  fell,  and  when  the  light  came  again  we  were 
on  shipboard  with  our  little  boy.  A  fierce  storm 
was  raging;  the  passengers  were  terrified.  Antonio 
held  me  and  my  child  clasped  in  his  arms;  and 
then  came  a  sudcjen  darkness  —  a  chill  and  gur 
gling  darkness  —  and  all  was  over. 

By  this  time  the  train  had  stopped  at  the  subur 
ban  station  near  which  I  lived,  and  I  got  off.  My 
head  was  throbbing  as  though  waves  were  beating 
against  it,  and  I  went  to  my  room  and  lay  down. 
"I  must  have  been  dreaming,"  I  persuasively 
mused;  but  no,  I  could  not  put  it  aside  as  the  hazy 


zozi.  283 

vision  of  a  dream;  it  was  the  successive  flashes 
of  vivid  recollections.  I  dozed  off  to  sleep  ap£ 
dreamed,  tut  of  some  commonplace  and  foolish 
thing.  My  mother  awoke  me. 

"  Laura,  aren't  you  coming  to  dinner  ?  " 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  calling  me  Zozi?"  I 
asked. 

"Think  of  calling  you  what!  Zozi!  "Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  name,  and  what  could  have  put  that 
notion  into  your  head,  my  child?  " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  but  that  at  some  time — be 
fore  I  was  born — you  thought  of  calling  me  Zozi." 

"  What  an  idea.  We  thought  of  naming  you 
Susan,  after  my  aunt." 

"And  you  never  even  thought  of  the  name  Zozi." 

"  Of  course  not;  never  even  heard  of  such  a  name; 
and,  even  if  it  had  been  suggested,  we  never  would 
have  thought  of  giving  it  to  you." 

That  evening  I  went  to  the  house  of  a  neighbor  to 
see  his  daughter  formally  presented  to  society.  I 
did  not  arrive  until  rather  late,  and  when  I  did  ap 
pear  in  the  drawing-room,  the  pet  of  that  night's 
social  whim,  the  tender-looking  daughter  of  an  un 
couth  old  man,  ran  up  and  heaped  an  ecstatic  wel 
come  upon  me. 

"Oh,  have  you  ever  met  Professor  Marsh?"  she 
asked. 

"  No;  what  is  he  professor  of?" 


284  zozi. 

u  Music — brilliant  performer  on  the  piano,"  and 
then  in  a  whisper  she  added:  "That's  the  reason 
papa  invited  him ;  isn't  here  altogether  as  a  social 
equal,  you  know.  But  he  does  play  charmingly. 
Wait  till  he  gets  through." 

The  professor  had  just  begun  a  wild  dash  down 
an  operatic  precipice;  and  we  stood  waiting.  The 
wild  dash  ceased  and  the  professor  turned  and  bowed 
to  his  admirers. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  "  cried  the  girl  catch 
ing  me. 

"  Nothing.     Let  me  sit  down  a  moment." 

She  led  me  to  a  chair,  and  the  applause  which 
followed  the  music  covered  our  words  and  drew  at 
tention  from  our  actions. 

"  There's  a  doctor  here  somewhere,"  said  the  girl. 
"  Let  me  call  him." 

"  No;  I  was  simply  dizzy  for  a  moment.  It's  not 
unusual  with  me.  Oh,  don't  be  alarmed.  It's  really 
nothing." 

But  it  was  something ;  it  was  Antonio  Moraso. 
And  he  looked  at  me  with  a  soul-reading  eye.  My 
heart  fluttered,  and  in  my  agitation  I  wondered  if  he 
knew  me.  But  a  moment's  reason  told  me  that  he 
did  not — persuaded  me  that  I  had  dreamed  and  that 
this  man  merely  chanced  to  figure  fittingly  in  the 
vision.  A  moment  later  he  was  introduced  to  me. 
We  strolled  about  the  rooms,  into  the  conservatory, 


zozi.  285 

and  sat  on  a  rustic  seat  under  an  oleander;  we 
seemed  to  be  prompted  by  one  impulse  as  we  turned 
toward  the  shrubbery — the  memory  of  one  sweet 
evening  in  an  Italian  garden.  The  professor  sat  for 
a  moment  with  his  hand  pressed  against  his  fore 
head,  and  then  he  turned  to  me.  Passion  beamed 
in  his  eyes.  Suddenly  I  was  thrilled  to  my  very 
soul.  He  had  whispered  the  name  "Zozi." 

"  And  you  know  me?"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  my  angel." 

A  cold  sense  of  propriety  struck  me — it  came  like 
the  slap  of  a  wet  hand. 

"Don't — don't  talk  that  way;  some  one  might 
hear,"  I  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  nodding  in  approval  of  my 
caution;  and  then  he  asked :  "  When  did  those  sweet 
memories  begin  to  float  in  upon  your  mind?" 

"Not  until  to-day,"  I  answered. 

"  Wonderful.  This  afternoon  about  3  o'clock?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  trembling. 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  he  pressed  his  hand 
against  his  forehead.  "  All  things  have  ceased  to 
be  astonishing,"  he  said,  seeming  to  recall  his  mind 
from  a  strange  wandering,  "  and  I  am  now  prepared 
for  all  sorts  of  spiritual  manifestations;  and  I  do 
believe  that  if  a  dead  man  should  rise  up  and  con 
front  me  I  should  not  regard  it  as  out  of  the  province 


286  ZOZL 

of  reasonable  and  expected  occurrence.  Zozi,  what 
a  school  I  have  gone  through  since  3  o'clock  this 
afternoon.  I  was  sitting  in  a  barber  shop,  waiting 
for  my  turn,  when  my  mind  was  suddenly  darkened 
by  a  strange  confusion  j  and  out  of  the  darkness  flashed 
rays  of  light,  and  in  the  light  were  strange  but 
sweetest  memories.  I  thought  I  must  have  dreamed, 
but  no,  I  had  not  dozed.  I  do  not  come  as  a  plough- 
boy,  precious,"  he  added,  smiling. 

The  hostess  came  up  and  drew  us  away,  and  soon  the 
"professor"  had  drowned  the  low  voices  of  the  past 
with  a  fierce  piano  storm  of  the  present.  We  had 
that  night  no  chance  for  further  conversation,  but 
just  before  parting  he  asked  me  if  he  might  call  the 
next  day. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  "  come  in  the  afternoon.  Do 
you  know  where  I  live  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  can  find  the  way.  Good-night,"  he  said 
aloud,  and  whispered,  "Angel." 

I  had  gone  to  bed  and  was  just  dozing  off  to  sleep 
when  a  moral  self-questioning  came  with  sudden 
force  and  aroused  me  to  full  consciousness.  Had  I 
acted  discreetly  in  gran  ting  that  man,  a  stranger,  from 
society's  point  of  view,  the  privilege  of  such  an  inti 
macy  ?  But,  then,  how  light  were  all  customs  of  the 
frivolous  and  heartless  present  when  weighed  against 
the  endearments  of  a  holy  past.  That  man  had  been 
my  husband,  and  with  me  had  shared  the  lova  of  a 


2021.  287 

beautiful  boy,  and  now  should  I  question  his  moral 
right  to  lay  a  fond  claim  to  me?  I  did  not  see  how 
I  could ;  and  yet  I  knew  that  society  would  accept 
of  no  explanation — in  fact,  could  comprehend  no 
such,  relationship.  I  wondered  if  it  were  wise  to  tell 
my  mother,  and  instantly  I  felt  that  it  would  not  be, 
for  she,  with  her  practical  mind,  could  not  even  fancy 
a  plausiblo  pretext  for  so  outrageous  a  presumption. 
Indeed,  I  felt  that  no  one,  no  matter  how  much  givea 
to  the  indulgence  of  strange  theories,  could  believe 
my  story,  and,  therefore,  I  was  resolved  to  keep  it  to 
myself.  But  did  I  really  love  this  man,  Marsh? 
Was  I  not  engaged  to  a  well-known  man,  and  had  I 
not  told  him  that  I  was  giving  him  the  firstlings  of 
my  heart's  devotion  ?  But  I  had,  under  ai}  old,  old 
moon,  in  the  sweet  time  of  an  ancient  yesterday, 
worshiped  I  Antonio,  and  this  man  was  Antonio 
corae  back  to  me.  He  was  not  so  handsome  as  of 
old,  but  I  put  this  off  on  the  ground  of  a  fond  blind 
ness  to  all  blemish  which  must  have  existed  in  that 
long  time  ago  when  women  were  supposed  to  feel 
but  not  to  reason. 

The  professor  came  the  next  afternoon,  and,  when 
I  heard  his  soft  and  thrilling  words  I  knew  that  I 
was  his  slave.  I  felt  that,  regardless  pf  recent  obli 
gations  which  I  with  happiness  had  taken  upon 
myself,  it  was  my  duty  to  follow  him  and  to  do  his 


288  ML 

I  sat  beside  him  on  a  sofa.  "  My  own  Zozi,  do 
you  love  me  with  that  old,  old-time  softness  and  beau 
tiful  devotion  born  of  a  redolent  garden?" 

"  I  worship  you,"  I  answered. 

"Then  shall  our  old  happiness  be  resurrected." 

"Love."  I  asked,  looking  into  his  eyes,  "what 
was  the  name  of  our  boy  ?  I  can  not  recall  it" 

"Alva,"  he  answered,  and  I  suddenly  remem 
bered  that  Alva  was  the  little  one's  name. 

We  eat  in  a  love-buoyant  silence;  I  against  his 
heart,  his  lips  pressed  to  mine. 

•*  Will  you  go  with  me? "  he  asked. 

'*  If  you  will  marry  me  again  we  will  take  up  our 
happiness  where  we  laid  it  down  BO  long  ago,"  I 
answered. 

"But  we  care  married,  precious — were  married 
in  ages  gone;  ours  was  one  of  the  matches  made  in 
heaven." 

"  Yes,  but  we  were  Italians  then,  and  now  we  are 
Americans  and  must  be  married  under  the  Ameri 
can  law." 

"  That  cannot  be,  Zozi;  the  law  will  prevent  it;  I 
am  married  under  that  law — my  wife  is — don't  draw 
away  from  me  I  Remember  that  we  did  not  recall 
our  ancient  marriage  and  the  happiness  that  followed 
until  yesterday.  Don't  turn  away  as  if  I  had  mar 
ried  in  violation  of  a  vow  made  to  you." 

He  pressed  me  to  him  again;  I  could  not  resist; 


7ozi.  289 

he  was  mine — mine  by  a  decree  rendered  when  the 
church  was  younger  and  purer — when  it  was  closer 
to  Christ 

"You  must  go  with  me,"  he  whispered,  and  the 
beating  of  my  heart  told  me  that  I  could  not  re 
fuse. 

I  went  with  him!  But  I  shall  recall  none  of  the 
details  of  the  flight;  you  know  what  a  shocking 
scandal  society  enjoyed.  We  went  to  New  York  and 
lived  in  a  hotel,  and  for  months  I  floated  in  a  dreamy 
happiness,  the  nerve  dulled  happiness  which  I  should 
imagine  becomes  the  normal  life  of  an  opium-eater. 
But  sharp  words  and  a  quarrel  came  one  night,  and 
then  I  saw  that  my  companion  was  growing  weary 
of  me. 

"  Antonio,"  I  cried,  "  has  our  ancient  love- turned 
to  a  modern  coldness?" 

"  Miss  Brizman — " 

"  Miss  Brizman!"  I  repeated. 

"Yes.  Isn't  that  your  name?  Now  let  me  tell 
you  something;  and  you  may  call  me  the  most 
soulless  scoundrel  that  ever  lived,  and  I  am  willing 
to  acknowledge  that  I  am,  and — " 

"You  are  my  Antonio,"  I  broke  in. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me?"  he  exclaimed.  "One 
afternoon  on  a  railway  train  I  saw  you  for  the  first 
time  and  was  struck  by  your  beauty,  and  then  yon 
began  to  remember  things — I  gave  them  to  you— 

10 


290  20ZL 

your  recollections  were  hypnotic  forces  at  work. 
"Wait  now,  don't  be  excited.  I  used  to  be  a  scientist 
in  that  line,  but  the  public  said  I  was  a  fraud.  Yes, 
I  am  tired  of  you — I  am  tired  of  everything.  A 
brute!  Oh,  yes,  and  a  scoundrel!  You  will  kill 
me?  Well,  then,  I  must  leave  you.  Good-bye." 

And  so  he  left  me. 

I  enter  no  plea  for  mercy;  I  simply  give  my 
story.  I  was  honest  in  my  belief;  I  may  have  been 
a  fool,  but  he  who  has  not  felt  the  influence  of  that 
startling  and  almost  superhuman  force,  a  force  that 
may  play  a  wonderful  part  in  tbe  affairs  of  men  in 
in  the  years  to  come— I  say  that  he  who  has  not 
felt  this  force  is  not  justly  fitted  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  me. 


DAN  MITERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DAN  MITEBS  was  especially  drunk.  By  this  I 
mean  that  any  other  man  in  the  village  of  Cane  Hill 
might  have  been  drunk — and  indeed  other  men  of 
that  respectible  community  had  been  known  to  in 
dulge  too  heartily  in  drink — but  that  Dan  Miters, 
being  the  acknowledged  drunkard  of  the  place,  was 
especially  and  particularly  intoxicated.  He  was  a 
man  of  acknowledged  sense.  He  had,  gossip  said, 
as  a  prelude  to  some  disparaging  statement  concern 
ing  his  weakness,  carried  off  the  honors  at  a  well- 
known  school.  One  thing  was  certain.  He  ex 
pressed  himself  in  better  language  than  even  the 
county  judge  could  hope  to  employ,  and  this,  at 
Cane  Hill,  was  regarded  as  a  convincing  assertion 
of  a  higher  education. 

Dan  had  first  come  to  the  village  as  the  agent  of 
a  nursery ;  not  that  sort  of  a  nursery  which  would 
disprove  the  declaration  that  marriage,  among  the 

poor  at  least,  is  a  failure  to  perpetuate  human  inis- 

201 


202  DAN  MITERS. 

cry,  but  as  the  agent  of  a  company  which  had  fruit 
trees  for  sale.  He  did  not  thoroughly  succeed  in 
running  the  gauntlet  of  village  curiosity,  for  vil 
lagers  are  critical  of  appearances,  and  a  lazy 
lounger  who  sits  all  day  at  the  store,  while  his  wife 
is  taking  in  washing — the  utterly  worthless  fellow 
who  would  rather  wallow  in  the  mire  with  a  black 
falsehood  than  to  recline  on  a  velvet  couch  with  a 
bright  truth;  who  wears  a  filthy  shirt  and  one  "bed- 
tick"  suspender;  who  chews  charity  tobacco  and 
spits  at  a  knothole  which,  he  thinks  by  the  right  of 
his  own  yellow  slime,  he  has  pre-empted — that  fel 
low  will  criticise  the  clothes  and  facial  expression  of 
a  stranger. 

Dan  was  criticised,  not  only  by  the  worthless 
loafer,  but  by  the  merchant,  and  even  by  the  faded 
woman  who  had  slipped  in  to  exchange  a  few  eggs 
for  a  small  piece  of  calico.  They  declared  that 
Dan's  hair  was  too  red,  and  that  there  were  too  many 
freckles  on  his  face;  and  it  was  agreed  that  he  did 
not  dress  as  a  gentleman  should.  The  worthless 
loafer  squirted  at  his  pre-empted  knothole  and  re 
marked: 

"Now  you're  gittin'  right  down  to  the  squar' 
facts." 

That  was  a  long  time  ago.  Dan  was  absorbed 
into  the  community's  social  system,  and  became 
celebrated  as  the  village  drunkard.  Previous  to  his 


DAN  MITERS.  293 

achievement  of  this  distinction,  the  fame  had  be 
longed  to  one  Peter  B.  Rush,  and  it  appeared  that 
he  could  never  be  robbed  of  the  reputation  which  he 
had  laborously  acquired,  but  after  a  few  years  of 
close  contest,  Peter  B.  Rush's  warmest  admirers  were 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  the  palm  belonged  to 
Dan  Miters.  What  a  handy  man  was  Miters  when 
a  comparison  was  needed!  What  an  encouragement 
to  innovation!  A  man,  in  speaking  of  some  one 
who  was  stupidly  influenced  by  liquor,  was  no  longer 
under  the  necessity  of  saying  that  he  was  as  drunk 
as  the  disreputable  canine  associate  of  the  fiddler, 
but  simply  fulfilled  all  demands  by  affirming  that 
he  was  as  drunk  as  Dan  Miters. 

Seriously — and  unfortunately  we  are  all  compelled 
to  be  serious  at  times — the  man  of  twenty-five  whose 
education  had  not  been  neglected  was,  at  forty-five, 
a  hopeless  vagabond,  with  every  hope  trampled  into 
the  mud  away  down  the  road  behind  him.  He  did 
odd  jobs,  cleaned  out  cellars,  and  cut  firewood  for 
scolding  women. 

One  day,  when  he  appeared  to  be  soberer  than 
usual,  the  mayor  of  the  village  thus  addressed  him; 

"Dan,  I  would  like  to  know  something  about  your 
life." 

"  And  I,  sir,"  Dan  replied,  "  would  like  to  know 
something  about  my  death." 

"You  are  a  funny  fellow,  Dan." 


294  DAN  MITERS. 

"No  doubt  of  it,  sir.  A  corpse  has  been  known 
to  grin." 

"Come,  don't  talk  that  way.  You  have  been  here 
now  about  twenty  years  and  none  of  us  know  where 
you  were  born." 

"And  do  you  really  want  to  know  where  I  was 
born  ?" 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  know." 

"Well,  sir,  I  was  born  in  the  night." 

"  There  you  go  again.  Say,  do  you  know  that  if 
you  would  brace  up  there  is  yet  time  for  you  to  ac 
complish  something." 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  tried  and  what  have  you  ac 
complished?" 

"  Why,  I  own  a  good  house  and  lot — I  am  married 
and  have  a  family  of  interesting  children." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  But  isn't  that  enough?  " 

"  Hardly,  for  you  have  not  taught  your  children 
not  to  feel  and  until  you  do  this  your  marriage 
stands  as  a  wrong.  About  a  year  ago  one  of  your 
boys  lost  an  arm  at  a  saw-mill.  Weren't  you  the 
primary  cause  of  his  suffering,  and  is  not  the  primary 
cause  the  meanest  of  all  causes?" 

"  I  won't  talk  to  you,"  the  mayor  declared.  "  There 
is  no  reason  in  your  argument  and  no  humanity  in 
your  conclusions."  "But  come,"  he  added  in  a 
softened  voice,  "  why  don't  you  make  an  effort  to 
keep  sober?" 


DAN  MITERS.  295 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to  keep  sober." 

"  And  why  not?" 

"Sobriety  is  the  mother  of  thought." 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  think — is  that  it?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  why  don't  you  want  to  think?  Tour 
thoughts  might  amount  to  something.  The  greatest 
man,  you  know,  is  the  greatest  thinker." 

"  So  is  the  greatest  sufferer." 

"And  when  you  think  you  suffer,  eh? " 

"Yesj  and  so  do  all  men.  Go  into  the  library 
and  look  about  you,  and  what  do  you  Bee  ?  " 

"Books,"  the  mayor  answered. 

"  And  what  are  books  ?  " 

"Gifts  from  superior  minds,"  the  mayor  replied. 

"No,"  said  the  drunkard.  "  They  are  the  records 
of  human  suffering.  Every  great  book  is  an  ache 
from  a  heart  and  a  pain-throb  from  a  brain.  But 
what's  the  use  of  all  this  talk?  What  concerns  me 
most  at  present  is  where  am  I  going  to  get  a  drink  ?  " 

"There  you  go  with  your  dogmatism." 

"  There  you  go,  measuring  the  grains  of  my  want 
in  your  half -bushel.  You  don't  need  a  drink  and 
you  say  that  I  don't.  I  would  not  presume  to  say 
what  other  men  need,  but  it  seemc  to  be  the  province 
of  all  other  men  to  dictate  to  me.  Come,  I  am 
growing  too  sober,  and  shall  begin  to  think  pretty 
soon.  "Won't  you  please  help  me  out  ?  Let  me  have 


296  DAN   MITERS. 

twenty -five  cents;  you  can  spare  it.  A  man  who 
doesn't  drink  has  but  little  real  need  for  money, 
anyway.  Let  me  have  twenty-five  cents  and  I'll  do 
any  sort  of  work  you  want  me  to." 

"Will  you  help  me  fix  up  the  address  I've  got 
to  deliver  at  that  political  gathering  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"  And  swear  that  you'll  never  tell  that  you  helped 
me?" 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  that,  too." 

"  And  you  will  draw  up  a  paper  swearing  that  you 
didn't  write  the  address  I  delivered  last  month  to 
the  Oddfellows  ?  I  want  you  to  do  this,  for  I  have 
heard  it  hinted  around  that  you  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  anything." 

Dan  was  about  to  turn  away  after  receiving  the 
money,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  woman  crossing 
the  courthouse  yard. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Burkley,  the  widow  we  have  employed  to 
teach  our  school,"  the  mayor  answered. 

"  Where  did  she  come  from  ?" 

"  From  Wilson  county,  I  believe.  Did  you  ever 
meet  her?" 

"I  think  not,"  he  said,  and  hastened  toward  a 
doggery  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 


DAN  MITEBS.  287 


CHAPTER  H. 

ON  a  hill  a  short  distance  from  the  village,  a  hill 
shaded  by  poplar  trees,  was  an  old  schoolhouse, 
originally  built  of  logs,  but  now  weather-boarded 
and  white-washed.  The  Widow  Burkley  had  just 
told  the  children  that  they  might  go  out  and  play 
until  she  called  them,  when  the  door  was  darkened 
by  a  reddish  apparition.  The  widow  uttered  a  be 
fitting  little  shriek,  and  then,  realizing  that  there 
was  no  serious  cause  for  alarm,  said:  "Come  in." 
She  would  not  have  extended  this  invitation  had 
she  not  wanted  to  set  an  example  of  courage. 

Dan  Miters  stepped  into  the  room.  He  stood  for 
a  moment,  looking  at  the  widow,  and  then  said: 
"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  saw  you  yesterday  and 
didn't  know  but  you — " 

"Is  it  possible?"  the  woman  exclaimed. 

"  That  is  what  I  was  going  to  ask,"  Dan  replied, 
seating  himself  on  a  bench.  "  Twenty  years  some 
times  make  a  great  change  in  appearance,  even 
though  hearts  sometimes  remain  the  same." 

"  Have  you  come  here  to  reproach  me  ?  Chil 
dren,"  she  added,  turning  to  several  youngsters  that 


298  DAN    MITERS. 

showed  a  disposition  to  loiter  about  the  door,  "  run 
along  now  and  play." 

The  children  vanished  and  the  widow,  looking 
out  to  see  if  they  were  within  hearing,  said:  "I 
have  suffered  too  much  to  bear  reproach  now." 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  you  deserve  reproach  ?" 
he  asked. 

u  No.  I  acted  as  I  thought  best.  I  promised  to 
marry  you  and  while  you  were  with  me  you  did 
exercise  so  strong  an  influence  that  I  thought  I 
loved  you,  but  when  you  were  gone,  I  knew  that  I 
didn't.  I  saw  that  I  was  charmed  by  your  mind, 
but  not  warmed  by  your  heart.  Another  man  came. 
He  was  not  bright;  he  had  many  foolish  words, 
but  love  is  sometimes  best  expressed  in  words  that 
are  foolish.  You  awoke  my  admiration ;  he  thrilled 
my  heart.  Then  I  wrote  and  told  you  not  to  think  of 
me  again.  I  was  buried  in  the  roses  of  my  own 
happiness.  How  could  I  think  of  you?" 

"And  you  married  that  man?" 

"Yes." 

"And  were  you  happy?" 

"  For  a  time.  Then  the  dew  fell  off  the  flowers. 
What  could  the  flowers  do  but  wither  ?  We  went  to 
a  distant  town  and  there  he  deserted  ma" 

"Is he  still  living?" 

**  He  was  hanged." 

"Do  you  love  his  memory?" 


DAN   MITERS.  299 

"  No,  I  have  learned  to  think,  and  thought  is  a 
dagger  to  foolish  love." 

" Did  you  know  that  I  was  here?" 

"No;  some  one  told  me  that  you  were  lost  at 
sea." 

"  Did  you  sorrow  over  the  news?" 

"No;  I  did  not  love  you." 

"  Did  you  not  hear  something  else  ?" 

"Not  until  a  year  ago,  and  then  I  heard  that  you 
were  alive  and  a  hopeless  drunkard." 

"Weren't  you  moved  at  that?" 

"I  was  moved  with  pity." 

"  And  would  your  pity  sink  deeper  into  your 
heart  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  am  the  most  hope 
less  of  all  drunkards?  Look  at  me.  Look."  He 
opened  his  coat.  "I  have  given  my  old  shirt  to  a 
negro  for  a  drink.  Does  your  pity  sink  deeper?" 

"  Oh,  please  go  away,  George,  go  away.  You  dis 
tress  me  nearly  to  death.  My  God!  I  have  suffered 
enough." 

"  Ah,  but  not  for  me.  Ton  have  suffered  because 
your  own  heart  has  been  wrung ;  you  have  not  suf 
fered  because  of  my  degradation  and  despair.  Mary, 
you  still  have  it  in  your  power  to  save  me.  With 
your  help  I  can  kill  my  appetite.  I  can  do  some 
thing  for  us  both.  Be  my  wife  and  atone  for  the 
awful  wreck  you  made  years  ago." 

"  George,  I  have  always  been  true  to  myself.  I 
don't  love  you." 


300  DAN    MITERS. 

"Couldn't  you  learn — couldn't  there  be  prog 
ress?" 

"There  could  be  progress,  but  that  progress 
would  be  toward  hatred." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  He  took  up  his  old 
hat,  which  had  been  dropped  on  the  floor,  and  turned 
it  round  and  round  in  his  hand.  He  looked  down  at 
his  shoes,  from  which  his  toes  protruded.  He  got 
up  with  a  stagger,  gazed  at  her  a  moment,  and  then 
an  expression,  not  a  smile,  but  an  expression  like 
that  which  follows  the  swallowing  of  a  bitter 
draught,  broke  through  the  red  stubble  about  his 
mouth.  "  Mrs. — I  don't  know  your  name,"  he 
began,  "  but  Mrs.  Somebody,  you  are  the  most 
merciless  creature  that  ever  lived." 

"  The  children  say  I'm  kind." 

"  You  have  the  spirit  of  a  vampire." 

"  The  children  think  I  have  the  spirit  of  gentle 
ness." 

"  I  hope  you  may  die  the  most  horrible  of  all 
deaths.  I  pray  to  God  that  you  may  die  of  hydro 
phobia — I  implore  God  that  a  mad  dog  may  bury 
his  teeth  in  your  throat." 

"Go  away,"  she  screamed.  "Come,  children/' 
she  cried."  "  Go  away  from  here,  you  monster.  I 
hate  you.  I  wish — but  I  can't  think  of  anything 
horrible  enough.  Now  go." 

******** 


DAN   MITERS.  801 

The  village  was  the  scene  of  fear-inspired  ferment. 
A  report  that  a  powerful  mad  dog  had  been  seen  in 
the  neighborhood  was  circulated  by  an  excited 
farmer.  The  bravest  of  men  shudder  at  the  sight 
of  a  mad  dog.  Men  who  would  fight  a  grizzly  bear 
tremble  if  they  see  a  mad  dog.  Double  fastenings 
were  put  on  every  door.  The  widow  Burkley  was 
terror-stricken.  She  could  not  be  induced  to  leave 
her  room.  Gradually  the  excitement  died  away. 
School  was  resumed  but  the  widow  was  tremulous. 

She  left  the  schoolhouse  very  late  one  evening. 
Two  rebellious  boys  had  been  kept  in.  When  lib 
erated  the  boys  ran  away.  The  widow  tried  to  keep 
up  with  them.  She  could  not.  She  was  hurrying 
•  along  the  path  when  a  man  came  dashing  past  on  a 
horse.  "Mad  dog!  mad  dog!"  he  yelled.  The 
widow  screamed  and  looked  back.  The  dog  was 
bounding  toward  her.  She  fainted. 

No  one  had  the  courage  to  look  for  ihe  widow. 
Late  at  night,  almost  a  maniac,  she  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  house  where  she  boarded. 

Morning  came.  A  startling  discovery  was  made. 
Dan  and  the  mad  dog  were  found  lying  across  the 
path  near  the  place  where  the  woman  had  fainted. 
The  dog's  teeth  were  buried  in  Dan's  throat.  Dan's 
fingers  were  stiffened  about  the  dog's  neck.  Both 
were  dead 


CLEM,  THE  OUTLAW. 


CHAPTEB  I. 

THE  people  of  the  Bald  Knob  neighborhood — on 
the  Missouri  Pacific  railway — couldn't  understand 
why  Clem  Holder  should  go  wrong.  His  people 
•were  surely  honest,  and  certainly  did  everything 
that  lay  within  the  range  of  their  ability  to  give  the 
boy  a  start  in  life,  but  he  went  wrong.  But  not  in  t];e 
tiresome,  every-day  manner,  mind  you.  He  didn't 
steal  a  horse  and  thereby  invite  the  contempt  of  the 
neighborhood;  he  did  not  commit  an  offense  so  com 
monplace  and  go  free  from  exposure  that  a  man  ot 
ordinary  nerve  would  have  contemplated  it  without 
alarm.  No,  he  jumped  on  a  pay  car,  robbed  the 
paymaster  and  killed  a  meddlesome  fellow  who 
ventured  to  protest,  or  offer  advice,  or  something  at 
the  sort. 

"What  a  handsome  fellow  Clem  was.  He  was 
strong  and  of  rather  good  size,  but  his  features  were 
as  delicate  and  as  refined  as  a  girl's.  His  eyes  were 
of  that  peculiar  blue  that  bespeak  innocence  or 


308 


304  CLEM,    THE    OUTLAW. 

deviltry,  you  can  never  determine  which,  and  his 
hair  was  long  and  inclined  to  curl.  Had  he  been 
reared  in  the  old  atmosphere  of  Italy,  he  would 
either  have  been  an  artist  or  a  bandit.  He  had  been 
morbidly  restless  all  his  life,  dissatisfied  with  the 
present  and  feeling  that  the  future  had  nothing  for 
him,  and  when  his  parents  had  bade  the  world  good 
night  and  gone  to  eternity's  bed,  he  yielded  no 
longer  to  restraint. 

The  Missouri  Pacific  Railway  company  effered  a 
large  reward  for  him.  The  sheriff  of  the  county 
happened  to  want  money  at  that  time  and  said  that 
he  believed  he  would  go  out  and  lead  Clem  to  justice. 
He  went  out  on  a  fairly  good  horse  and  came  back 
in  a  wagon;  and  while  his  friends  were  burying  him 
near  old  Ebenezer  church,  some  one  remarked  that 
Clem  always  had  been  a  sort  of  independent  fellow 
and  that  he  was  "powerful  slow"  in  yielding  to 
persuasion.  Well,  a  very  noted  man,  a  great  catcher 
of  illicit  distillers,  said  that  Clem  must  answer  for 
his  crimes,  and  with  a  few  selected  men  went  after 
him.  Clem  met  them  unexpectedly  and — well,  ho 
still  refused  to  yield  to  persuasion,  and  when  the 
fragments  of  the  argument  were  gathered  up,  the 
great  catchey  of  illicit  distillers  was  labled  and  sent 
to  his  friends. 

After  several  other  attempts  had  been  made,  the 
arrest  of  Clem  Holder  was  regarded  as  an  eventful 


CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW.  305 

but  unenjoyable  undertaking.  The  young  fellow 
lived  in  the  hills,  rode  a  good  horse  and,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  people  who  knew  him,  was  about 
as  near  a  king  as  an  American  could  wish  to  be. 

For  many  years  Clem  had  been  deeply  in  love 
with  Silla  Garrett,  a  handsome  young  woman,  the 
belle  of  a  hundred  country  dances.  She  was  a  cold 
piece  of  proud  flesh.  Your  celebrated  beauty  may 
be  cold,  but  she  can  not  hope  to  rival  the  imperial 
chilliness  of  the  backwoods  belle.  The  rough  hom 
age  of  the  fellow  with  his  trousers  in  his  boots  in 
spires  more  of  a  contemptuous  loftiness  in  a  back 
woods  queen  than  the  polished  worship  of  the 
courtier  could  possibly  inspire  in  a  beauty  celebrated 
by  two  continents. 

Silla  did  not  tell  Clem  that  she  would  not 
marry  him.  When  he  had  actually  fallen  at  her 
feet,  long  before  he  had  robbed  the  pay  car,  and 
implored  her  to  be  his  wife,  she  had  told  him  that 
she  was  so  poor  herself  that  she  could  not  afford  to 
marry  a  poor  man.  He  had  been  kept  so  busy  for 
a  time  after  he  committed  the  robbery  that  he  did 
not  have  an  opportunity  to  call  on  her,  but  several 
days  after  he  had  parted  with  the  great  catcher  of 
illicit  distillers  he  rode  up  to  the  fence  surrounding 
old  man  Garrett's  house  and  yelled:  "Hello,  in 
there!" 

Silla  came  to  the  door  and  exclaimed:     "Why, 
so 


306  CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW. 

Clem  Holder,  what  on  earth  are  you  doin'  here?** 

"Oh,  I'm  out  payin'  up  a  few  calls  that  I  hap 
pened  to  owe.  I've  been  kept  pretty  busy  lately.  I 
used  to  think  that  I  might  never  get  into  business, 
but  I've  had  no  cause  to"complain  since  I  took  up 
railroad  work." 

"  Clem  Holder,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self." 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  it  ain't  as  bad  as  that.  I  don't  see 
why  a  man  should  be  ashamed  of  himself  when  he's 
done  as  well  as  he  can.  In  this  life  we  ought  to  be 
censured  for  failin'  to  do  our  duty,  but  when  we 
have  improved  each  shinin'  hour,  as  the  feller  says, 
we  ought  to  be  complimented.  Say,  where'g  the 
old  man?" 

"Gone  to  mill." 

"  Where's  the  old  woman?" 

"  Up  stairs  sick  with  a  headache." 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"  Why?  Do  you  reckon  I  want  you  to  come  in 
our  house  and  be  shot  there?" 

"  Who's  goin'  to  shoot  me?" 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use  in  askin'  such  foolish  ques 
tions?  You  know  the  railroad  is  after  you." 

"  Yes,  and  the  railroad  is  about  fast  enough  to 
catch  me,  but  the  train  is  hardly  due  yet.  Let  me 


CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW.  307 

come  in,  Silla;  I've  got  somethin'  to  say  to  you." 
"Can't  you  say  it  out  there?" 
"  I'm  afraid  somebody  might  hear  me." 
"  No,  you  ain't.     A  man  that  ain't  afraid  to  rob  a 
railroad  ain't  afraid  to  have  anybody  hear  what  he 
says." 

"From  a  woman's  standpoint,  no,"  he  answered, 
stroking  his  horse's  mane,  "but  from  a  man's  stand 
point,  yes.  A  feller  that  ain't  afraid  to  fight  a 
brave  man  is  sometimes  afraid  to  have  a  coward  hear 
him  talk.  Silla,  you  told  me  some  time  ago  that 
you  couldn't  afford  to  marry  a  poor  man.  You  knew 
how  I  loved  you,  knew  that  your  words  stabbed  me 
with  a  frost-covered  knife.  I  wanted  money — I 
wanted  you,  so  I  robbed  a  pay  car.  I'm  not  so 
mighty  rich  yet,  but  I've  got  enough  to  keep  you 
from  work.  Now,  you  just  get  up  here  behind  me 
and  we'll  leave  the  country.  I'll  take  you  away  off 
somewhere  and  we  can  live  as  happy  as  a  king  and 
queen.  Come,  Silla." 

" Look  here,  man,  do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?" 
"I'd  like  to  take  you  for  anything.  Come,  Silla." 
"  Nonsense,  Clem.     Do  you  reckon  I  could  marry 
a  robber  and  a — a —  murderer?  " 

"  I  am  a  robber,  but  I'm  not  a  murderer.  I 
robbed  because  I  wanted  you,  and  I  shot  because 
men  wanted  me.  Men  wanted  me  for  money.  They 
didn't  care  anything  about  justice.  They  wanted 


308  CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW. 

t  the  reward,  and  a  constant  seeker  after  reward  ain't 
any  better  than  a  robber,  but  that's  neither  here 
fcor  there.  I  want  you  to  go  with  me." 

"Oh,  I  can't  Clem." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  why.  It  would  be  so  awful.  I'd 
tsve  to  go  away  where  I'd  never  see  any  of  my 
folks  again  and — oh,  I  just  can't." 

"Is it  because  you  love  some  other  man?  " 

"No." 

"  If  you  do  I  will  kill  the  man." 

"  I  don't  love  anybody  but — but — " 

"Out  with  it." 

"But  you,  Clem." 

"  Thank  God  for  them  words.  Let  me  get  down 
and  kiss  you." 

"  Oh,  Clem,  you  are  the  foolishest  man  I  ever  saw." 

"  Not  foolish,  but  in  love,  Silla.  May  I  come  in 
the  house?" 

"No,  no;  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  think;  pap 
might  come  home." 

"  Well,  what  could  he  do?  " 

"  He  could  give  me  an  awful  goin'  over.  No, 
Clem,  you  mustn't  come  in.  Some  time  you  may, 
but  not  now.  Say,  Clem,  if  I  ask  you  something, 
will  you  think  me  funny?  " 

"  Nothin'  that's  beautiful  can  be  funny." 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  this — now  I  just  know 
you'll  think  I'm  funny." 


CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW.  309 

"No,  I  won't." 

"Honest?"  and  then  she  laughed.  Talk  of 
honesty  to  a  robber.  "  Honest?  "  she  repeated. 

"Honest." 

"Well,  how  much  money  did  you  get  out  of 
that  pay  car  ?  Now,  there,  I  '.old  you  you'd  think 
I  was  funny." 

He  laughed  and  affectionately  stroked  his  horse's 
mane. 

"  Honest,  now,  don't  you  think  I'm  funny?  " 

"  No.  Let  me  see.  I  got  about  sixteen  thousand 
dollars." 

"Gracious  alive! "  she  gasped,  and  then  exclaimed, 
"  yonder  comes  pap.  You'd  better  go." 

But  he  did  not  go;  he  sat  stroking  his  horse's 
mane,  waiting  for  old  man  Garrett.  The  old  fel 
low  tumbled  the  bag  of  meal  on  the  fence,  turned 
his  horse  into  a  lot  and  then  slowly  came  forward 
with  a  scowl  on  his  face.  He  stopped,  put  ono 
foot  on  a  low  stump  and  then  asked:  "What  are 
you  doin'  here,  Clem  Holder  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sorter  restin'  awhile." 

"Well,  this  is  a  mighty  pore  place  to  rest  I've 
been  livin'  here  fifty  odd  year  and  I  ain't  never  had 
no  rest  yet,  so  if  you  are  in  need  of  that  artickle,  I 
reckon  you'd  better  shove  on  somewhar  else." 
"  Silla,"  he  called,  "go  in  the  house.  Now,  look 
here,  Clem  Holder,"  he  added  when  the  girl  dis- 


310  OLEM,    THE   OUTLAW. 

appeared,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing,  and  that's 
this:  You  must  keep  away  from  my  house.  I 
never  did  have  any  too  much  use  for  you,  and  your 
robbery  and  killin'  ain't  improved  things  none. 
What  are  you  hangin'  round  here  for,  anyway?  " 

"  I  love  your  daughter." 

"  Love  the  devil!  "   the  old  man  stormed. 

"No,  love  an  angel." 

"  Well  then,"  the  old  man  replied,  with  an  air  of 
compromise,  "we'll  say  that  the  devil  loves  an 
angel;  but  that  ain't  what  I  want  to  git  at.  You 
must  keep  away  from  my  house.  I  don't  want  to  be 
took  up  on  your  account  and  put  in  jail,  and  I  won't 
be  if  I  can  help  it,  nuther.  You  have  ruined  your 
self  and  disgraced  all  your  friends,  and  I'll  be 
blamed  if  you  shall  draw  me  into  it  Do  you 
hear?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  won't  keep  away 
except  on  one  condition." 

"Well,  and  what  is  it?" 

"  That  Silla  will  keep  away  with  me." 

"  Clem  Holder,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you." 

"  All  right,  and  I  don't  intend  you  shall,  BO,  you 
see,  we  have  come  to  a  pretty  good  understandin'. 
Now,  let  me  ask  you  a  few  questions:  Did  the  rail 
road  ever  help  you  in  any  particular  way  ?  " 

"Help  me!  The  infernal  scoundrels  killed  «J 
cow  and  never  paid  me  more  than  half  price." 


CLEM,   THE  OUTLAW.  811 

«« Well,  then,  they  robbed  you,  didn't  they?  " 

"  Of  course,  they  did." 

"Ah,  hah,  and  I  robbed  them." 

"  But  what's  that  got  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"A  good  deal.  I  will  give  you  the  price  of  a  hun 
dred  cows  if  you  will  give  me  your  daughter." 

"Clem  Holder,  I  have  struggled  along  the  best  I 
could  and  managed  to  live  somehow,  without  ever 
takin'  a  dishonest  cent,  and  it  is  most  too  late  to 
begin  now.  Go  on  away  from  here  and  don't  come 
back  again." 

"There's  no  use  talkin',  old  man,  I  can't  do  it. 
If  you  won't  give  me  your  daughter,  I  will  do  you 
as  I  did  the  railroad — rob  you." 

"And  I  will  do  you  as  I  did  Buck  Goodall  ten 
years  ago — kill  yon." 

"All  right,  old  man,  I  won't  deny  you  the  pleas 
ure  of  tryin',  but  I'll  protest  against  the  accom 
plishment,  as  the  feller  says.  Well,  I  must  be  goin'. 
Good  day." 


312  CLEM,   THE  OUTLAW. 


CHAPTER  n. 

ANOTHER  attempt  to  capture  Clem  Holder  was 
made,  and  all  that  kept  a  daring  deputy  sheriff  from 
biting  the  dust  was  the  fact  that  a  rain  had  fallen 
the  night  before.  But  Clem  was  pushed  so  hafd 
this  time  that  he  fled  to  the  mountains. 

One  day  a  man  called  at  old  man  Garrett's  and 
asked  for  Silla.  She  came  into  the  room  and  the 
man  said; 

"  I  want  to  talk  sense  to  you  for  a  few  moments." 

"That  is  something  remarkable,"  she  answered. 
"  It  isn't  often  that  a  man  wants  to  talk  sense  to  a 
woman." 

He  bowed  and  thanked  her.  "  That  fellow,  Hol 
der,"  said  he,  "  has  given  it  out  that  he  got  sixteen 
thousand  dollars  from  the  railroad  company,  but  he 
didn't — he  got  only  seven  hundred." 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked,  with  falling  counte 
nance. 

"Every  cent." 

"Then,  why  are  they  tryin'  so  hard  to  catch  him?" 

"  To  make  an  example  of  him." 

"  But  what  have  I  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"A  good  deal.     You  can  help  us  catch  him." 


OLEM,    THE   OUTLAW.  813 

•*  But  why  should  I  want  you  to  catch  him  ?" 
"  Now,  miss,  let  me  talk  sense.  If  you  should  run 
away  and  marry  him — hold  on,"  he  broke  off,  hold 
ing  up  one  hand.  "  I  know  that  you  are  going  to 
say  that  it's  none  of  my  business,  but  be  patient  a 
moment.  If  you  were  to  run  away  with  him  he 
would  lead  you  a  dog's  life.  He  hasn't  money 
enough  to  get  anywhere  and  it  would  simply  be  a 
dodge  and  a  fight  all  the  time.  You  are  fitted  for 
better  things.  If  you  had  money  enough  to  go  to 
a  large  city  and  put  on  a  handsome  dress,  you  would 
soon  become  celebrated  as  the — now,  pardon  me — as 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  entire  country.  Ir. 
society,  a  queen  is  nowhere  in  comparison  with  a 
beautiful  woman ;  and  you  would  stand  at  the  Lead 
of  the  list.  Great  men  would  fall  down  and  worship 
you  and  you  could  marry  a  foreign  duke  and  live  in 
a  magnificent  palace.  It  is  a  woman's  duty  to  make 
the  most  of  herself.  Love  is  all  well  enough  as  a 
poetic  idea,  but  ill-mated  love  can  not  last.  Leading 
a  dodging  life — a  life  of  hardship — you  would  soon 
lose  your  beauty  and  then  your  outlaw  husband 
•would  find  you  a  burden  on  his  hands.  Now,  you 
arrange  it  so  we  can  capture  him  and  we  will  make 
you  a  queen.  We  will  give  you  two  thousand  dol 
lars  in  money  and  will  send  you  to  St.  Louis  in  a 
•plendid  palace  car,  all  your  own.  Be  sensible." 
•"**--*  how  can  I  help  you  catch 


314  CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW. 

"  Easily  enough.  The  next  time  you  see  him  you 
can  make  an  appointment  to  meet  him  somewhere. 
You  can  give  him  something  in  a  glass  of  water  to 
make  him  sleep  and  then  slip  a  pair  of  handcuffs 
over  his  hands." 

"Oh,  I  don't  see  how  I  could." 

"You  can,  easily  enough,  if  you  are  sensible.  I 
tell  you  that  it  is  your  duty  to  make  the  most  of 
yourself.  Nature  has  done  her  part,  and  now  you 
must  do  yours." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  But  I  would  like 
so  much  to  lire  in  a  palace." 

"  You  can,  just  as  well  as  not." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do." 

"You  will  know  when  you  have  studied  orer  this 
matter  in  a  sensible  Way.  I  will  hang  around  in 
the  neighborhood.  When  he  comes  again  you  make 
an  appointment  to  meet  him." 

"  But  he  may  not  come  again  soon." 

"Yes,  he  will."  The  officer  of  the  law  knew  that 
the  robber  would  come  soon.  The  shrewd  fellow 
had  adroitly  sent  to  the  mountains  a  report  that 
Silla  was  to  be  married. 

Several  days  passed.  It  was  Sunday.  Old  Gar- 
rett  and  his  wife  were  at  church.  Silla  was  at 
home.  A  slight  noise  attracted  her  attention. 
She  went  to  the  door.  Clem  had  just  ridden  up  to 
the  fence. 


OLEM,    THE  OUTLAW.  315 

*'  Why,  what  are  you  doin'  here?" 

"Lookin'  for  a  man." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  him?" 

"  Want  to  kill  him." 

"What  for?" 

"  Because  he's  goin'  to  marry  you." 

"  Oh,  what  a  goose  you  are.  Nobody's  goin'  to 
marry  me,  that  is,  not  now." 

"  I  heard  you  were  goin'  to  be  married." 

"You've  heard  more'n  I  ever  did.  Clem,  you 
know  I  couldn't  marry  anybody  but  you." 

"Well,  but  you  won't  even  marry  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will  some  time,  but  I  can't  now.  Why 
haven't  you  been  to  see  me?"  she  asked. 

"HI  had  thought  you  wanted  to  see  me,"  he  said, 
"  I  would  have  risked  everything  and  come;  they 
have  been  pushin'  me  mighty  close  lately.  May  I 
come  in?" 

"  No,  not  now;  but  if  you  will  oome  next  Sunday 
you  may." 

"Say  I  may  come  in  now." 

"  No,  next  Sunday.  Everybody  will  be  away  then 
and  we'll  just  have  a  lovely  time." 

"I  will  be  here." 

The  old  people  went  to  church  the  following  Sun 
day.  The  girl  eagerly  watched  for  the  coming  of 
the  young  man.  He  came.  He  did  not  ride  up  to 
the  fence;  he  came  stealthily  out  of  the  woods.  The 


316  CLEM,    THE    OUTLAW. 

girl  met  him  at  the  door  and  kissed  him.  He  at 
tempted  to  take  her  in  his  arms  but  she  drew  back 
and  said: 

"  No,  not  now.  After  a  while  you  may.  Sit  down 
and  talk  to  me  nice — tell  me  how  much  you  love 
me." 

He  put  his  Winchester  rifle  beside  his  chair.  "  If 
I  were  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you,  I — oh,  I 
couldn't  do  it,  that's  all."  He  remained  silent  for  a 
few  moments  and  then  said:  "  Now  that  I  have  got 
in  here  I  don't  hardly  know  what  to  say."  He  was 
silent  again.  "  I  know,  though,"  he  began  after  a 
time,  "  that  no  human  bein'  was  ever  loved  as  much 
as  you  are.  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  you  were  a 
child,  and  it  has  grown  on  me.  The  stronger  I  got 
the  more  I  loved  you.  I  have  always  had  you  in 
mind  as  an  angel — the  emblem  of  all  that  is  good, 
and  if  I  should  lose  confidence  in  you  I  wouldn't 
care  to  live.  I  know  it  sounds  strange  when  I  talk 
of  anybody  bein'  good  when  I  am  so  bad  myself, 
but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Oh,  you'll  never  have  cause  to  lose  confidence  in 
me,  Clem.  You  look  tired,  dear." 

"I  am  a  little  worn,  for  they  push  me  mightily 
sometimes." 

"  Let  me  fix  you  something  to  eat?" 

"No,  I  ain't  hungry.  Silla,"  he  suddenly  spoke 
up,  "  I  will  always  be  gentle  with  you,  it  don't  make 


CLEM,    THE   OUTLAW.  317 

any  difference  if  I  have  killed  men.  Oh,  you  are 
an  angel."  Her  hair  had  fallen  loose,  and,  in  a 
silken  maze,  was  hanging  about  her  shoulders.  "  I 
do  believe  you  are  the  most  beautiful  creature  in 
the  world,  and  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  where 
you  might  go,  all  the  other  women  would  have  to 
take  a  back  seat." 

"  I  hope  you'll  always  think  so,  dear.  Do  let  me 
fix  you  something.  Oh,  I  have  some  of  the  best 
blackberry  cordial  you  ever  drank.  Won't  you 
drink  some  of  it  for  me — just  because  I  made  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  do  anything  for  you." 

She  brought  the  wine  in  a  teacup  and  he  drank 
it. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  angel?"  he  asked. 
"  You  look  scared." 

"  Nothin'.  I  was  just  thinkin' — just  sorter  afraid 
that  they  might  catch  you." 

"  Not  much  danger.  The  only  way  they  can  do  is 
to  slip  up  on  me." 

He  talked  of  his  love.  "  You  are  noddin',  dear. 
Won't  you  lie  down  on  the  bed  for  a  little  while  ? 
I  will  keep  watch  and  tell  you  if  I  see  anybody 
cominV 

"  No,  I  must  go  putty  soon.     I  must — I  must — 
he  was  asleep.     She  sprang  to  a  table  and  snatched 
a  pair  of  handcuffs  out  of  a  drawer,  and  then,  with  the 
quickness  of  fright,  snapped  them  on  his   wrists. 


318   '  CLEM,   THE  OUTLAW. 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  No  one  in 
sight.  She  looked  back  at  the  sleeping  man  and, 
uttering  a  shriek,  sprang  at  him  and  wildly  tried  to 
tear  the  handcuffs  off  his  wrists. 

"Clem!"  she  cried;  "Clem,  wake  up — oh,  my 
darling,  wake  up!  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  be  a  queen, 
I  don't  want  men  to  worship  me — I  want  your 
Clem,  oh,  for  God's  sake,  wake  up!  My  head 
turned,  but  it  isn't  now.  Oh,  I  can't  get  them  off. 
Oh—" 

Three  men  entered  the  room.  "  Get  out  of  here!" 
she  shrieked.  "  He  is  mine  and  you  shan't  have 
him." 

The  men  seized  him.  He  did  not  awake.  "  Let 
him  be,"  she  screamed,  throwing  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  passionately  kissing  him.  "  Oh,  you  devils 
— you  hell-hounds.  Don't  take  him  away.  Oh,  for 
mercy's  sake  don't!"  she  implored,  sinking  upon 
her  knees.  They  dragged  Clem  toward  the  door. 
She  shrieked  and  fell  on  the  floor,  and  one  of  the 

men  in  his  excitement  trod  on  her  beautiful  hair. 

*  *  *  #  #  *  * 

The  prisoner  deserved  no  mercy,  the  judge  said, 

and  so  said  the  jury. 

*  #  *  *  »•-*..* 

A  gallows  was  erected  near  the  railroad  track,  and 
a  man  slowly  swung  to  and  fro — a  weird  accompani 
ment  to  the  screaking  of  a  beam  overhead. 


CLEM,   THE  OUTLAW.  319 

******* 

Two  men  were  riding  along  a  lonely  road. 
"  What  peculiar  noise  is  that?"  one  of  them  asked. 

"  You  have  heard  of  Clem  the  outlaw,  haven't 
you?  He  loved  old  Garrett's  daughter.  She's 
down  there  in  the  hollow,  crying.  Goes  down  there 
every  day.  She's  all  the  time  trying  to  tear  some 
thing  off  her  wrists.  Crazy  1" 


[THE  Em) 


MRS.  WINSLOWS 
SOOTHING  SYRUP 


Is  an  OLD  and  WELL  TRIED  REMEDY,  and  for  over 
FIFTY  YEARS  has  been  used  by  millions  of  mothers 
for  their  CHILDREiN  while  CUTTING  TEETH  with 
perfect  success.  It  soothes  the  obild,  softens  the  gums, 
reduces  inflammation,  allays  all  pain.  cvres  wind  colic, 
b  very  pleasant  to  the  taste,  and  is  the  bcs/1  -emedy 
for  diarrhoea.  Sold  by  druggists  in  ever  par1  f 
the  world.  .  .  .  .  -  .  v  . 

Price,  25  Cents  a  Bottle. 

Be  sure  and  ask  for  MRS.  WINSLOW'S  SOOTHING  SYRUP 
and  take  no  other  kind,  as  mothers  will  find  it  the  Best 
Medicine  to  use  during  the  teething  period.  .  .  . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9 — 15nt-10,'48(B1039)444 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


PS 


Read  - 


2679  The  captain*  s 
R22c  romance. 


PS 

2679 

R22c 


